End of the Road
by EKWTSM9
Summary: They were partners in every definition of the word and would be till the very end.
1. Chapter 1

"Sorry I'm late," Detective Lieutenant Mike Stone growled as he threw open the passenger side door of the tan LTD, tossing his black topcoat into the back seat before dropping heavily onto the front. The glance he shot towards the driver was laced with apology and frustration. "Jeannie's leaving to go back to school this afternoon and she just had to make sure I knew where everything was once again."

Inspector Steve Keller chuckled as he shifted into Drive and the large sedan pulled away from the curb. "She been moving things around again?"

With a heavy sigh, the older man nodded. "That's what I call it; she calls it putting things back where they belong. The only trouble with that is, I can never find things again when I need them. It took me so long to find the can opener the last time she did that, I almost threw the can of corn through the kitchen window." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "Sometimes I think it's a good thing I live alone…"

The younger man joined in the laughter. "Well, you have a couple of weeks till she's back again… you could really drive her nuts at Christmas and completely re-arrange the whole house."

Mike turned to him, wide-eyed. "Hey, I like that idea, I gotta remember that." The sedan turned onto Division. "Oh, Jeannie did up a couple of turkey plates for you; they're in the fridge. Remind me to give them to you tonight."

"Hey hey," Steve laughed, pleasantly surprised. "Oh yeah, I can sure use those." Jeannie was a terrific cook and the young cop was always a willing recipient of one of her meals, whether fresh or left over. As he swung the unmarked cop car into the roundabout towards 8th the radio crackled to life.

" _Inspectors 8-1, please respond."_

With a glance of exasperation at his partner, the lieutenant leaned forward slightly and snagged the mic. "Already…?" he griped under his breath before pressing the 'Talk' button. "Inspectors 8-1, go ahead."

" _Lieutenant, Sergeant Winters is requesting your presence in an alley off Tehama between 5_ _th_ _and 6_ _th_ _."_

Mike's head went back slightly and he frowned as he pressed the button again. "He asked for me by name?"

" _Yes, sir,"_ came the reply from the female dispatcher with a slight chuckle, _"by name."_

He looked at his young partner with a sceptical smirk. "I don't trust that bastard any further than I can throw him." He pressed the button again. "Tell him we're on our way."

" _Ten-four, sir."_ Amusement was still obvious in her voice.

Steve was grinning as he stared out the windshield. "I told you you shouldn't have done that to him –"

"Oh, come on, he just doesn't have a sense of humor. Besides, I actually, if you remember correctly, didn't do anything to him… except, you know, get out of the way."

"Yeah, by pushing him aside and into the Bay?"

"Hey, in my defence," Mike almost whined, a hand pressed to his chest, "I was in hot pursuit and he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I was there, remember?" Steve retorted dryly as he swung the car onto Bryant. "Hot pursuit, my ass, unless you meant the cup of coffee that homeless guy threw at you as you ran past him."

"Hey! That was a brand new suit, if you remember correctly," Mike crowed in justification. "It wasn't my fault Winters was between me and the edge of pier. He should've been paying more attention." He looked misunderstood and crestfallen. "Besides, I offered to pay for his dry cleaning…"

Shooting his partner a surreptitious sideways glance, Steve attempted unsuccessfully to stifle his chuckles, which made the older man's brow furrow in self-pity even more.

"He's had it in for me ever since…"

They had made it to Tehama; even from several blocks away they could see at least three patrol cars blocking the street. With a final mirth-filled glance across the front seat, Steve brought the big sedan to a halt beside one of the black-and-whites and they both got out.

Two patrolmen were keeping the dozen or so interested spectators on the sidewalks and away from the alley; a uniformed officer nodded as the two detectives approached. "Sergeant Winters is down there, sir."

"Thanks, son," Mike nodded in return, shooting Steve a 'this had better be good' glance before starting down the alley, the younger man in tow.

The alley ran between two two-storey buildings, one concrete grey, the other a simulated red brick. Both had seen better days. The alley was full of torn cardboard boxes, broken wooden pallets, a couple of fetid mattresses, decaying food and filthy, discarded clothes. The acrid smell of stale urine hung heavily in the air.

Sergeant Barry Winters and several uniformed officers were standing in front of a large dark blue dumpster, it's broken heavy plastic lid open and braced against the wall of the concrete building. Several feet away, another uniformed officer with a notebook and pen in his hands was talking to a hairy, wildly bearded and dishevelled homeless man who was gesturing broadly, his wide eyes staring intently at the young cop's face. There seemed to be blood on the vagrant's filthy long brown coat.

Steve shot another look at his partner, who had managed to fall half a step behind as they walked down the alley. The lieutenant's expression was once more that of the professional homicide detective but Steve could recognize the apprehension in his eyes.

Mike cleared his throat lightly. "So what have you got for us, Barry?"

Steve winced slightly. Even he knew the Patrol Sergeant preferred to be called by his rank or last name while on the job, but he also knew this was Mike's way of inserting the bamboo under the sergeant's fingernail. This was going to be interesting…

Winters, a slightly younger, shorter and paunchier version of the lieutenant, hesitated only a beat. "Mike, well, our friend over there," he tilted his head in the direction of the derelict, "was making himself comfortable in this dumpster here overnight – you know, it's cold this time of year and I guess it's warmer in there, who the hell knows – when he says he got woken up in the middle of the night by someone throwing something in. He didn't think anything of it till this morning when he woke up and he was covered in blood."

Both homicide detectives frowned as their attention refocused on the beggar momentarily. "What was it?" Mike asked, turning back to the sergeant.

Winters nodded at the dumpster. "Have a look for yourself." He gestured towards a wooden box that had been dragged in front of the dumpster. "It'll hold your weight," Winters explained encouragingly but that didn't stop Mike from casting a suspicious glance at his partner.

The lieutenant gestured towards the box but Steve shook his head with a chuckle. "No no no, I think you should have the first look. I mean, you being the boss and all that," he said quickly as he took a step back. He knew Mike wasn't squeamish about what he might see; as ludicrous as it was, he knew Mike was afraid that Winters might have deliberately misrepresented the sturdiness of the box.

With a sigh of inevitability, Mike put one hand on the top edge of the dumpster and raised his left foot to hoist himself onto the box. Safely up, surprised to find the spindly looking wooden structure did support his weight, he leaned over the edge of the dumpster.

From the ground beside the box, there in case Mike really did need him, Steve saw his partner freeze, then close his eyes and exhale loud and long. Turning back, Mike jumped to the ground, brushing his hands together to wipe away the grit. He nodded at the box with his head.

Frowning, Steve hauled himself up and looked over the top of the dumpster. There, on a piece of white cardboard, lay the lower half of a human leg.


	2. Chapter 2

"Bernie and his team are on their way," Winters informed Mike as Steve jumped down from the box to join them. "I'll leave one unit here with you but I want to get everybody else back on the street. There're rumblings about an uptick of assaults against the gays in The Castro so the brass wants a visible presence."

"Go," Mike said quickly, jerking his head towards the street, "we've got this." As the patrol sergeant turned to leave, the lieutenant added dryly, "And, ah, thanks…" When Winters brow furrowed, he smiled mirthlessly. "… for asking for me by name."

The sergeant's face split into a smug grin. "You're welcome," he chuckled as he started towards his car again. "It was the least I could do."

Muttering expletives under his breath, Mike turned back to his partner, shaking his head. "I thought Norm and Dan were up but I guess this is ours now, isn't it?"

Trying to mask his chuckles, Steve nodded, bobbing his eyebrows. "Yep."

The older man sighed, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets, his eyes drifting to the dumpster. "Great. So where do we start? All we have is a foot."

"Well, we could get a leg up on all this by –"

"Oh my god, are you starting already?" Mike interrupted, staring wide-eyed at his companion.

"What?" Steve asked innocently.

Mike tilted his head with an irritated glare. " _A leg up_? What, you thought you could slip that one past me and I wouldn't notice?"

Steve dropped his head, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Mike waited patiently until he raised his head and cleared his throat. "Officer!" the younger man called to the patrolman still talking to the vagrant.

The unie started towards them, his notebook still in his hand.

Steve gestured towards the homeless man with his chin. "Was he of any help… Talbot?" he asked, reading the man's nameplate.

The patrolman shook his head. "No, sir. He says he was asleep when someone threw something - the leg he guesses - into the dumpster. He swears it wasn't there when he got into the bin last night. Anyway, it didn't hit him so he just ignored it and went back to sleep and he didn't realize it was a human leg until he woke up this morning." He glanced back at the vagrant who was still standing near the far wall. "He didn't have anything to do with it."

"Maybe not," Mike offered, "but we wouldn't've found that leg if he wasn't in there, would we?" He took his hands out of his pockets; there were several folded bills in his right hand. He peeled a ten-dollar bill off the top and handed it to Talbot, staring pointedly at Steve as he did so.

With a chuckle, the inspector reached into his own pocket and handed Talbot another ten. With a knowing nod and a smile, the patrolman turned and headed back to the vagrant.

"So I hear we have a body part?!" Bernie's voice caught their attention and they turned to see the cadaverous coroner leading his team of two down the alley.

"Bernie, my man!" Steve greeted with a laugh as Mike grinned. "Yeah, that's what it looks like."

"Of course we need your official opinion before we can go any further," the lieutenant chuckled then gestured over his shoulder with his head. "It's in there."

Bernie looked at the dumpster. "Aren't they all?" he growled rhetorically as he dropped his black case to the ground and took a step towards the wooden box.

"We've both been up there; it's safe," Steve assured him.

As the medical examiner nimbly climbed onto the box, Mike took a step closer. "Listen, Bernie, we need to know if that's the only body part in there as soon as possible, okay? If it is, we gotta start trying to find the rest of the body pronto."

"Gotcha."

Mike turned to his partner. "Listen, ah, chances are that _is_ the only part in there, don't you think?" The younger man nodded. "So what do you think the chances are that whoever did the dismemberment, if that's what this is, is getting rid of the parts one at a time in different dumpsters around town?"

Steve raised his eyebrows. "That's a possibility."

"Yeah. So, what do you think? We should get in touch with the companies that own all these dumpsters and stop their pick-ups for today?"

"There's gotta be more than one company in The City, right? I'll get on the horn to Norm and Dan and get them to stop all the pick-ups today until all the dumpsters can be checked out." He raised his eyebrows. "It's gonna be a big job."

"It's gonna be a long day."

With a nod, Steve turned to jog back down the alley to the LTD.

"Damn it," Mike muttered under his breath as he stuck his hands back into his pockets, looking at the ground and scuffing the dirt with the toe of his right shoe. He had wanted to have lunch with his daughter before she headed back to school; that was now definitely out of the question.

# # # # #

An hour later, with the Homicide detectives sitting on the hood of the nearby black-and-white, patiently waiting, Coroner's Assistant Jeff Crosby's head popped over the lip of the dumpster. "Lieutenant!" he called.

Both partners slid off the hood and approached the dumpster.

"Sorry, sir, but there's nothing else in here. Just the leg. And sorry it took so long but there was lots to check out."

"That's okay. Thanks, Jeff!" Mike called back then turned to Steve. "All right, let's get to the Hall. I want to see what Bernie's learned about that leg and I want to find out how far Norm and Dan have gotten with the dumpster companies." They headed towards their car, Steve fishing the keys out of his pocket. "And get ahold of the duty sergeant when we get back. I want to see how many academy recruits we can get to help with the dumpster searches."

"Good idea."

"And we'll have to get in touch with Missing Persons too. It might be too early, but who knows, right?" They reached the LTD and got in. Mike exhaled loudly as he sunk into the seat. "I have a feeling this is gonna be a tough one, buddy boy."

Steve smiled to himself as he turned the engine on and backed onto the street. It had been a long time since Mike had used that timeworn sobriquet; he knew the older man's mind was racing with all the possibilities that one body part presented, and that he probably wasn't even aware that he had said it.

# # # # #

"So whata you got for us, Bernie?!" Mike's loud voice cut through the silence of the coroner's office but this time the smaller man didn't jump; he had heard the outer door open and knew it would be the effervescent lieutenant. He smothered a chuckle but not the smile.

"Well, not much." The ME got up and crossed to the far side of the examination table where the detached appendage lay covered with a thick, pale green sheet. He picked up the clipboard from the table. "It's definitely male. Caucasian. Age is hard to pin down but I would say between thirty and fifty. Reasonably fit. Size 12. By and large undistinguished except for this." He pulled the sheet back, exposing the foot. With his gloved hand he pointed at the big toe.

Both detectives leaned forward to take a closer look, Mike slipping his reading glasses out of his inside jacket pocket and putting them on. He looked up at the ME, his brow knit. "He doesn't have a toenail."

"No, he doesn't," Bernie confirmed. "And he hasn't for a long time."

"What would cause that?" Steve asked.

"Well, could be any number of things," the ME replied with a tilt of his head, "but I think he dropped something very heavy on it when he was a younger man and it just didn't grow back. It's more common than you'd think."

"Humh," Mike grunted as he straightened up, taking off his glasses. He glanced at his partner. "Well, that's something that might make identifying him a little easier." He looked at the ME again. "So, ah, what about the, ah… you know, the dismemberment…" He swallowed heavily, gesturing vaguely towards the part of the leg still under the sheet. "Can you tell how it was done?"

With a broad smile, Bernie took the sheet completely off the severed appendage. Both of the detectives heads went back slightly at the sight of the raw stump but neither of them looked away.

"Well, I know it wasn't done with a chainsaw; they leave the edges ragged and the flesh torn. I would say this was probably done with a handsaw or a hacksaw."

"A handsaw?" Mike echoed, frowning. He knew how much strength it would take to sever a bone as large as a shin or thigh with a hacksaw, let alone a handsaw.

"Yeah, see the striations on the bone here." Bernie pointed to the thin parallel lines on the end of the shinbone as Mike put his glasses back on. "That's from a saw."

Mike looked at his partner. "Well, I'd say that rules out a woman, wouldn't you?" He included the medical examiner in his raised eyebrow rumination.

Both Steve and Bernie nodded. With a quick shake of his head, as if to clear it, Mike took off the glasses again. "I, ah… I hate to even ask this but…" He gestured feebly at the severed limb. "Can you tell if this was done after the poor bastard died or…?" He let the uncomfortable question hang.

With a knowing smile, Bernie nodded slowly. "Postmortem, most definitely. He was dead before he was cut up, I can guarantee you that at least."

Mike sighed heavily and dropped his head. "Well, that's good to know. At least whoever did this isn't a sadist… that we know of…" He brought his head up and smiled suddenly. "Thanks, Bernie. Let's hope we can provide you with more body parts before the end of the day and we can begin to narrow this down a little more."

# # # # #

"I was wondering when you two were going to grace us with your presence," Sergeant Norm Haseejian groused with a frown, one hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver pressed to his ear, as they entered the Homicide office.

Mike shot a quick look over his shoulder at his partner as they crossed the bullpen, Steve stopping at his desk to check for messages before following Mike to the inner office. Dropping his hat onto the rack, the older man turned to face his still scowling sergeant. "What's the matter, Norm? Too many dumpsters?"

"It's not the dumpsters that's the problem," Haseejian growled, trying to keep the volume down, knowing he would be heard on the other end of the phone, even with his hand over the mouthpiece, if he raised his voice too loud. "It's the company owners. They keep –" He pulled his hand away quickly, his attention suddenly back on the phone. "Yes, Mr. Tarkanian, I understand we've thrown your schedule all out of whack and it'll take days to straighten out… yes, sir… I'm sorry… yes, yes, I know you have clients but this can't be helped, Mr. Tarkanian, this is official police business… yes, yes… yes, I know…" He glared at Mike who, swallowing a smile, backed into his office, pushing Steve ahead of him, and closed the door.

He was still chuckling when he sat down after taking off his .38 and stowing it in the top drawer. Steve dropped into the guest chair and leaned back, putting his foot against the edge of the desk and massaging the back of his neck. Mike brought his hands to his face and rubbed his fingertips into his eyes, stretching his back muscles and flexing his shoulders. He glanced at his watch.

"Oh, damn it. I was hoping to get to call Jeannie before she left. Oh well, best laid plans, eh?" He sat forward and slapped both hands on the desk. "So, when, ah, when Norm gets off the phone… and cools down a little bit… we'll find out what he's uncovered, or not. Why don't you give Jerry down in Missing Persons a call and see if they have anything we'd be interested in?"

"What are you gonna do?" Steve asked facetiously as dropped the chair back to the floor and reached for the phone.

"What am I gonna do? I'm gonna go bring Rudy up to speed and then I'm gonna order us in some lunch. It's almost four. I don't know about you, but I'm starved and I don't want to go down to the cafeteria. Besides, you're catching me in a good mood and I'm feeling generous. Don't jinx it."

"My lips are sealed," Steve chuckled as he concentrated on dialing the phone, studiously avoiding his partner's blue eyes as the older man got up and crossed around the desk, slapping the younger man affectionately on the shoulder before he left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh man that hits the spot…" Steve moaned with satisfaction as he swallowed his first bite of calzone. "Thank you again." He raised the folded pizza with a smile and a nod.

By the time Mike had finished with Olsen, it was closer to six than four. And by the time the deliveryman had shown up in the lobby with Mike's take-out order, it was past seven and the sun was long gone.

Mike swallowed then grinned. "I'm just glad they deliver." He leaned back in the chair, calzone in hand, and put his right foot on the open bottom desk drawer. "So, what did Jerry say? Any missing persons fit our… description?" he chuckled.

Steve had just taken another bite so he picked up the notepad lying near his elbow, turned it around and tossed it towards the far side of the desk. Mike picked it up with his free hand, glanced at it and started to laugh. _'Bupkis'_ it read. He tossed the pad back on the desk.

"Okay. Well, l guess that covers that."

Swallowing demonstrably, Steve chuckled. "I also took it upon myself, since you were showing no signs of returning anytime soon, of putting out APB's to all the police departments in a two hundred mile radius inquiring if anyone anywhere has reported any unidentified body parts in the last 48 hours."

Mike nodded his approval.

"And I contacted all the hospitals in the area."

"The hospitals?" Mike asked around a mouthful, frowning with curiosity.

With a nod, the younger man paused in his rabid consumption of the only food they had seen in the past twelve hours. "Yeah, well, I knew it was a longshot, but I thought maybe, you know, it could have been a legitimate amputation…"

"What? And they just toss the severed limbs into a dumpster in the middle of the night? I think they have… you know… protocols and facilities in the hospitals to handle that kinda thing, don't you?"

Steve shrugged with a mirthless smile. "Hey, I was just covering all the bases… in case anyone asked, you know…"

Mike tilted his head with a facial shrug. "Well, you might have a point if they… you know… amputated the wrong leg…" he mused with a disturbing sincerity.

The younger man stared at him and neither of them moved for several long seconds, then they both started to laugh. Mike threw his head back. "Oh my god, we're punch drunk, we have to be…"

There was a soft knock on the door and they looked up, trying to pull themselves together. A harried-looking Haseejian, his hair mussed and his tie askew, stood in the doorway with a notepad in his hand. "We still have to hear back from three more teams but so far, nada. Oh, and by the way, Dan said he's sending you a bill for dry cleaning. The cadet he was with got nauseous when he found a bag of maggots and puked all over him."

His eyebrows on the rise, the calzone still in his hand, Mike turned to his partner. "Jeez, maybe I should think of buying shares in a dry cleaning company." With a snort and a wicked grin, he looked at Haseejian again. "Listen, Norm, Steve and I'll wait to hear from the teams still out there. You go home."

"You sure?" the Armenian sergeant asked tentatively, his eyes flicking from one partner to the other.

Steve nodded. "We're sure. You've taken enough flak already."

"Yeah," Mike agreed, "and besides, if things keep going the way they are, we're not going to find anything, I have a feeling."

Haseejian shrugged. "Well, if you're sure… Thanks." He turned to go then stopped and looked back. "So what are you going to do if we don't find anything else?"

It was Mike's turn to shrug. "There's not much we can do, is there? Mister No-Nail's case will have to be shelved unless and until we find something else…"

Haseejian's brow furrowed and Steve's turn to his partner was a comical slow take. "Mister what?" the sergeant asked hesitantly.

Mike looked innocently from Haseejian to Steve, who was staring at him with raised eyebrows, and back again. "Mister No-Nail," he repeated pedantically. "I mean we have to call him… or it or whatever… something, don't we…?"

"Okay…" Haseejian said softly, drawing out the word.

Steve blinked slowly then turned to his colleague still hovering near the door. "The foot is missing the big toenail," he offered by way of explanation.

Haseejian's head went back slowly. "Ah, I see…" His smile was brief and perfunctory. "Okay, well, ah… you guys have a good night…" Without waiting for a response, he started across the bullpen towards his desk.

The partners looked at each other then started to laugh again. Mike took another bite out of his rapidly cooling calzone while Steve stood up, gathering the used napkins and wrappers and stuffing them in the paper bag their meal had come in. They both continued to chuckle.

From the bullpen, they could hear Haseejian's desk phone begin to ring. "I'm out of here!" the sergeant called over his shoulder, halfway to the main door.

"I got it!" Steve called to him, dropping the paper bag and jogging across the bullpen to his colleague's desk. "Homicide, Keller."

"Steve? Why the hell are you answering Norm's phone?" It was Dan Healey.

"Hi, Dan. Mike told him he could go home; he was losing patience with the company owners."

"God, tell me about it. I've been dealing with angry people all day."

"I bet. So what can you tell us?"

"Nothing good, I'm afraid. There's still one more dumpster to check out and we're on our way there after I hang up with you, but we've got nothing. Not even blood. Sorry."

"Hey, don't be sorry, there's nothing you can do about that." Steve took a deep breath. "Listen, ah, call when you know and then just go home. The day's been long enough, right?"

"You got that right. Okay, I'll call as soon as I know." There was a click and the line went dead.

Steve hung up and turned towards the inner office. Mike was looking at him and he shook his head as he crossed the bullpen. The older man signed as he got to his feet, stuffing the wax paper wrapper from his calzone into the paper bag. He inhaled deeply. "Well, we weren't really expecting to find anything, were we?" The question was mostly rhetorical.

"No, I guess not."

"Listen, ah, I'll stay and wait for Dan's call. Why don't you head home?"

"How are you gonna get home?"

"I'll take a cab."

"No, don't do that. I don't need to go home, I can wait with you. Besides, if Dan does find something, I want to be there too, right? I mean, it's our case, isn't it?"

Mike stared at him, a small smile playing over his lips. "You're right, it is our case. Well, let's hope this doesn't take too long; it's been an unexpectedly long day already."

# # # # #

"So yeah, Bernie, you can put that… leg part on ice. We've hit a dead end right now in trying to identify him, but who knows? Something may turn up."

"You got it, Mike. Oh, ah, you can add one more thing to your list of what we know about him – his blood type is O."

Mike pulled the notepad on his desk closer, picked up a pen and made a note. "O, hunh? Well, that's not a big help is it?" he chuckled and heard the medical examiner do the same on the other end of the line.

"No, I guess not."

"Thanks anyway. And I'll let you know if we come up with anything else."

"You got it, Mike."

"Thanks, Bernie." The lieutenant dropped the receiver on the cradle and picked up the thin manila file folder lying on the corner of his desk. He flipped it open, tore the note off the small pad and slipped it under the paperclip at the top of the first page. Closing the folder, he picked it up, stood and turned to the filing cabinet, opening the top drawer.

Steve had finished his own phone call and, notebook in hand, made his way to the inner office door. "Just got a call from dispatch," he said as Mike found a place for the folder and shut the cabinet drawer before turning towards him. "Some fishermen found a body floating near Pier 47 when they came in this morning. It seems fresh, they think. Wanna roll on it?"

Mike shrugged, taking off his glasses. "Why not? We're not going anywhere with Mr. No-Nail, are we?"

"Nope."

"Then let's go." He stuffed his glasses into his shirt pocket as he crossed to the coat rack for his suit jacket and hat while Steve snagged his sportscoat from the back of his chair and shrugged it on.

# # # # #

"Wow, you guys are back early," Inspector Lee Lessing observed as the partners walked back into the Homicide bullpen less than four hours later. "I thought you caught a floater this morning?"

Mike grinned like the cat that ate the canary as he strode past his partner, who had stopped at his desk, and headed straight for the inner office, taking off his hat as he walked. "Turns out it was that guy who disappeared trying to swim from Alcatraz to Treasure Island last week… remember the news coverage?"

Lessing sat back and snorted, shaking his head. "You mean that fitness guru guy who said he was strong enough to swim against the current and with the water temperature about 55?"

"Yeah, that guy," Steve added with a smirk. "His body finally washed up somewhere."

"Jeez, I thought he'd end up on the other side of the Golden Gate, what with the tides and all that."

"Yeah, that's what everybody thought. Turns out he didn't." Steve took off his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair. He was just about to sit when he heard Mike calling his name.

The lieutenant was standing behind the desk, his glasses on, a page from a notepad in his hand. He was frowning.

"What is it?"

Mike nodded towards the bullpen. "Get your jacket back on. We're going on a little road trip."

"A road trip? Where?"

"Fairfield." A small smile was playing over the older man's lips.

Frowning slightly, but with a small smile of his own building, Steve asked, "Why Fairfield?" He'd never been to Fairfield but he knew it wasn't too far from Vacaville, where the California Medical Facility was located, which housed inmates in the state penal system that needed either physical or mental health treatment.

His smile widening, Mike held out the piece of paper. "Because that's where the Solano County Coroner's Office is. And because they just found a male torso in a ditch on the side of I-80 just south of Vacaville this morning."

Steve took the paper without looking at it, continuing to meet his partner's wide-eyed, and obviously enthusiastic, stare. "A torso?"

Grinning, Mike nodded. "A torso." He glanced at his watch. "So, you wanna go on a little road trip?"

The younger man matched the grin. "You gotta believe it." He handed the note back, then spun on his heel and strode to his desk, grabbing his jacket without missing a beat as he headed for the door.

Mike lifted his fedora from the coat rack as he left the office, taking a slight detour to hand the note to Lessing. "Call that number and tell them we're on our way."

"Yes, sir!" Lessing called with a laugh at his boss's back as he disappeared through the Homicide office door.


	4. Chapter 4

A little more than an hour later, the tan SFPD unmarked sedan pulled into a space in the Solano County Coroner's Office parking lot. They entered through the glass front door, both of them showing their stars and I.D.'s to the uniformed sergeant behind the counter in the small lobby.

"Stone and Keller from San Francisco," Mike announced pleasantly as the Fairfield officer's eyes quickly scanned their credentials.

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Chief Royden is waiting for you in the Coroner's Office." He pointed to his left. "It's down that way."

"Thanks," Mike smiled as he pocketed the leather case and started down the hall.

Nodding pleasantly, Steve hesitated for a beat. "The coroner's name…?"

"Taguchi… Roger Taguchi."

"Thanks." Steve jogged a couple of steps to catch up with his partner before the older man reached the two large wooden doors with a brass 'Coroner's Office' nameplate. They opened onto a small room with a counter and a couple of desks. A dark-haired man about Steve's age, wearing a white lab coat, got up from one of the desks and approached them.

Mike reached into his pocket again for his badge but the young tech was quicker. "Lieutenant Stone?"

"Yes."

"Captain Royden and Doctor Taguchi are waiting for you, sir. Just down the corridor and to your right."

Nodding his thanks, Mike turned, slowing for Steve to fall into step beside him. "Do you get the feeling either we're late or they don't have too much to do around here?" he asked sotto voce, amusement in his voice.

The younger man chuckled quietly. "I think it's the latter… at least I hope it is."

Mike opened the door with the 'Autopsy Room' plaque and they stepped into a smaller version of Bernie's fiefdom. The two occupants, one a gray-haired middle-aged man in a dark blue uniform and the other a Japanese-American man of indeterminate age with a shock of jet black hair and a white lab coat, got up from tall lab stools and approached them.

After introductions were made and handshakes exchanged, Mike nodded towards the autopsy table where a white sheet covered what was obviously the reason for their presence. "So this is it, hunh?"

Inhaling deeply, Royden nodded. "Yeah. But, ah, before Roger here… unveils it," he paused with an almost nervous chuckle, "is it okay if I ask you a couple of questions?"

"Sure. Shoot," Mike answered genially with an encouraging smile.

"Your APB didn't mention it but your sergeant did when I called him… You found a leg in a dumpster in San Francisco yesterday, is that right?"

Both Mike and Steve nodded.

"And you're hoping that maybe this is the torso that goes with that leg?"

Two more nods.

Royden inhaled deeply once again. "Well, before we go any further, I just want to talk to you about jurisdiction and all that."

Mike glanced at his partner, his smile wavering. They had discussed this very subject in the car on the way up the Interstate. All they had was part of a leg; if the rest of the body was found in or around Fairfield, their police department would have jurisdiction over the case and there was nothing the SFPD could do to get it back. Or, if the majority of the body parts were found along the interstate, the State Police or even the Highway Patrol could claim jurisdiction.

Mike didn't want that to happen. He felt invigorated by the challenge of, first, trying to identify the body, and then having to discern how and why the death had occurred and who was responsible for it. He'd only worked one other dismemberment case in his long career, and that was years ago when he was the junior partner in a homicide team. Steve had never worked one. Cases of this kind engendered their own special demands and required the very best of any detective's skills.

"Now," Royden began slowly, "this particular body part was found along the I-80 just beyond the city limits north towards Vacaville."

"Who found it?" Mike asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

"Believe it or not, we had a couple of our boys supervising a small gang of first-time offenders who were doing a little roadside clean-up along the highway. They found this…" He gestured vaguely towards the examination table. "… at the bottom of a ditch in some bushes." He stopped himself, realizing the San Francisco detective had, deliberately or not, hijacked his train of thought. "Before I give you any more details," he reiterated, trying to get back on topic, "I want to make one thing clear."

From the corner of his eye, Steve could see his partner raise his chin slightly, bracing himself for the inevitable.

"Gentlemen, I well and truly hope this torso does belong to your leg, because I have no desire to spend any of the limited resources of this police department, in man hours or budget, in the pursuit of what I can only assume will be a time-consuming and possibly futile investigation." Finished speaking, he waited expectantly for their response.

It was not what either big city detective had been expecting, and it took a few seconds for the exact meaning of the Chief's plea to sink in. Steve glanced sideways at his partner, whose expression could best be described as slightly taken-aback, but pleasantly so.

Continuing to stare at the Fairfield police chief, Mike softly cleared his throat, slowly putting his hands into his pants pockets as he swayed slightly, a warm smile curling his lips. "Chief," he began amiably, "we would be… delighted to take this torso, and whatever else your department might turn up, off your hands. Wouldn't we, Steve?" He glanced at his partner.

The younger man, trying to mask his amusement at Mike's almost uncharacteristically controlled enthusiasm, nodded in agreement. "It would be our pleasure," he concurred as Mike shot him an almost giddy look of relief.

Royden blew out a long sigh then grinned. "You have no idea how happy I am to hear that. Cases like these are a nightmare, and they eat up a lot of time and money… time and money this department just doesn't have, I'm afraid."

"Well," Mike reassured with a gently chuckle, "the SFPD brass probably won't like it too much either, but at least we have the manpower. So consider it officially off your hands." He slipped his right hand out of his pocket and shook the Chief's. "So, ah, Doc," he turned his attention to the coroner, "just what do we have here?"

Taguchi flashed a big smile and took a step towards the far side of the examination table. "Well, like I told your sergeant over the phone," he began as he lifted the white sheet to reveal the fleshy, grey-hued, bloody and muddy torso, "this is the trunk of a 30 to 50-year-old man, slightly overweight as you can see, but otherwise unexceptional. There are no scars or other distinguishing marks, like tattoos or birthmarks, and there is no obvious sign of injury or foul play… except, of course, that it's missing its head and limbs…"

He looked at the two homicide detectives and shrugged apologetically. "I guess it'll be up to your own ME to do the autopsy, and maybe he can come up with a cause of death."

Mike was staring at the body, his brows knit. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well, he's, ah, he's… intact, isn't he?" he said almost quietly, nodding vaguely towards the torso's genital area. "I guess, ah, I guess mutilation and torture can be ruled out, wouldn't you say?" He glanced at the other three and they all nodded.

"The, ah, the arms and legs seem to have been dislocated from their sockets," Steve added quietly, gesturing at the gruesome body part with his chin, his own hands now stuffed into his pockets.

"Yes," Taguchi agreed. "The flesh, as you can see," he leaned over the torso and pointed at the skin around the right upper leg, "has been cut with a sharp edge… not a knife but maybe a saw. There are some small striations on the ligaments, tendons and muscles which leads me to believe it was a small handsaw, but your ME should be able to make a more accurate assessment."

"There are striations on the shinbone of the leg part we already have… hopefully they'll match," Mike said with raised eyebrows and a tilt of his head.

A phone somewhere in the room began to ring and Taguchi, with a soft, "Excuse me," crossed to the desk against the far wall and picked up the receiver.

Mike turned to Royden. "If it's okay for Steve to use your phone, I think we should call our ME and find out how he wants us to get this… this body part back to The City."

"Sure, of course," Royden said eagerly, still obviously relieved that the responsibility was his no longer. He turned to Steve. "Inspector, if you'd like to come with me? My office is right next door. Handy, hunh?" he chuckled as he turned towards the door.

He and Steve were just about to exit when Taguchi put his hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver and called out for the Fairfield police chief. They stopped and turned back towards the coroner.

Taguchi's eyes flashed from the chief to Mike and back again. "It's the Highway Patrol. They've found two more body parts."

# # # # #

"Okay, Bernie, I got it. Thanks. Yeah, we'll be back as soon as we can… Okay, great, see you in a few hours."

Steve hung up the phone and glanced at his partner, who was leaning back in the chair opposite the metal desk in the Fairfield Police Department's bullpen, one foot up against the desk edge, his fedora pushed back on his head. He chuckled as he picked up the yellow legal pad, turned it around and tossed it towards the older man.

Mike leaned forward, taking his foot off the desk and letting the chair drop heavily to the linoleum as he dug his glasses out of his inside jacket pocket and put them on. "We've gotta get all that?"

"Yep," Steve nodded with a snort, "we gotta wrap each body part in a clean plastic bag and put it in a separate container."

"You're kidding…"

"Nope. I think Bernie knew you wanted to just toss them into one box altogether –"

"Well, no…" Mike whined in his own defense and his partner chuckled before continuing.

"And he was insistent that each have it's own…" He took the notepad back and glanced at it. "It's own ' _ice-filled closed container to avoid cross-contamination'._ "

Mike was staring at him with a perplexed frown. "That's, what? That's six containers we have to get?" Steve nodded. "Well, what kind of containers?"

"Bernie said we can use regular coolers or those new Styrofoam ones I've seen in stores. Oh, and we're gonna need a lot of ice."

"Ice… where do we get ice?"

"I think they sell it in bags in grocery stores."

"I wouldn't know, I've never bought any. The only ice I use comes out of trays in my freezer." Mike sighed grumpily. "Well, I guess we better go find ourselves some coolers." He got up.

Chuckling, Steve got to his feet as well. "We're going to have to buy all this stuff, you know. I hope you brought your credit card."

"Me? Why me?" The older man looked affronted.

"Well, I don't think they're going to give us this stuff for free, and I don't think Royden or Taguchi are going to pony up for it. After all, it's not their case anymore, is it?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Well, no," Mike mumbled.

"And besides, you make more money than I do."

"You don't have a daughter going to an out-of-state university."

"Nice try."

With a heavy sigh, Mike turned towards the Chief's office. "I'll go ask Royden where he thinks we can get what we need." He looked over his shoulder as he walked away. "There better still be room in the car for me… I'm not riding home lying on the roof."

Steve's laughter followed him across the bullpen.


	5. Chapter 5

**End of the Road – Chapter 5**

It was shortly past midnight when the tan sedan pulled up to the large garage door of the loading dock outside the Office of the Medical Examiner, which also happened to be 850 Bryant. The passenger side door opened and Mike climbed out wearily, crossing to the entrance door and pressing the buzzer.

Several seconds later they heard a motor kick in and the garage door opened. Mike watched as his partner drove the LTD into the loading dock and turned off the engine. Bernie and an assistant were waiting to one side with two large trolleys.

"You're a little earlier than I expected, not that I'm complaining," the coroner said with a smile as Steve got out and Mike joined them.

"Not much traffic," the inspector explained as he crossed around to open the trunk and Mike opened one of the back doors.

Bernie bent down and looked in the open door. Two blue-and-white and one red-and-white Coleman coolers were lying on the back seat.

"There's three more back here," Steve offered, pointing into the trunk.

Straightening, the ME glanced up at Mike, whose loosened tie, tilted hat and red-rimmed eyes told the story of the day. He chuckled slightly. "Let's get these in the fridge and then we can all go home."

"I like the sound of that," the lieutenant groused good-naturedly.

Within seconds they had the six coolers on the two trolleys and the ME and his assistant were disappearing through the double swinging doors into the bowels of the building. Bernie turned back, holding one of the doors open. "Listen, uh, it's gonna take some time to process all these parts tomorrow morning, so don't expect anything until at least noon, all right? I'll call you."

Mike glanced at Steve with a smile. "I'll hold you to that, Bernie. Thanks." He turned wearily to his partner and sighed.

Steve chuckled, pointing up at the building. "You, ah, you want to go up to the office… you know, get a little work done…? I'm mean, you know, we're here already…" There was an impish tone in his voice.

With a playful growl, Mike grabbed his partner's elbow and steered him back towards the car.

# # # # #

Steve walked into the inner office with two cups of steaming hot coffee in his hands. Wearing his black-rimmed glasses, Mike was on the phone, making notes on a small pad on the desk in front of him. He glanced up as the younger man entered, looking pointedly at the cup as it was put down in front of him and nodding.

"Yes… okay, well, thanks… yes, I'll let you know as soon as we get any more information… and you'll call here?... Great, thanks a lot… Okay, goodbye." He hung up the receiver and stared at the notepad for a couple of seconds before picking up the mug and taking a sip. Steve had settled into the guest chair and was waiting, his own cup in hand.

"Who was that?"

Mike looked up at him. "Oh, ah, the chief of the CHP division in Fairfield. The ones that found those other parts?" Steve nodded. "They're still looking for the parts we're missing but so far they haven't had any luck. He said they're going to keep looking so who knows…?"

"Any word from Bernie yet?"

"No." Mike glanced at his watch. "And it's already one."

Steve smiled to himself. He knew his partner was getting anxious; patiently waiting was not one of Mike's strong suits.

They had both come in late – close to 10 – and had yet to even entertain going for lunch. Mike didn't want to be too far from the phone in case the ME called.

"Did you get much sleep?"

Mike looked at him guiltily. "Not really," he said quietly. "I couldn't turn my mind off."

Steve shook his head with a laugh. "How come that doesn't surprise me one –"

The phone rang and Mike picked it up before the first ring died. "Homicide, Stone." He was staring at his partner, his expression expectant. A smile blossomed. "We'll be right down, Bernie, thanks."

They were both on their feet before the receiver was back on the cradle.

# # # # #

Bernie was standing on the far side of the covered examination table when Mike almost charged into the room, his partner entering a little more sedately a couple of strides behind. The ME was more successful than he thought he would be at masking his amusement. The energy and enthusiasm the aging lieutenant continued to display, even after so many years on the force, was a never-ending source of amazement and pleasure.

"So what have you discovered, Bernie?" Mike asked before the door had even closed behind the pair. "Is it all the same guy?"

Chuckling slightly, the coroner glanced from the lieutenant to the inspector and back. "You can relax, Mike," he said genially, "you definitely have only one guy here." He reached for the sheet and started to pull it down.

Mike's eyes widened and his smile grew even larger. "Really? That's great." He turned and shot a triumphant grin at his partner.

The ME had taken the sheet completely off the table, exposing its contents. The first thing they noticed was the parts that were still missing: the right forearm and hand, the left thigh and knee, and the head.

"So, ah, did you get anywhere with the identification?" Steve asked as they studied the almost complete body.

Bernie shook his head regretfully. "Unfortunately no. As you guys no doubt noticed yesterday, the tips of the fingers," he pointed at the left hand, "were cut off, so that's no help. And no tattoos, birthmarks… anything unusual. He does have an appendix scar but so do a lot of people."

"I have one of those," Mike tossed in as he studied the assembled parts.

"So do I," Bernie chuckled. "The striations on the bones and tendons are consistent, as is everything else – size, blood type, skin tone. It's definitely all parts from the same body. But as for identifying him…" He exhaled loudly. "We still need the head for that, I'm afraid. From the looks of things, even finding the rest of the right arm won't help – those fingertips are probably gone too."

Mike straightened up with a disappointed groan.

"But there are a couple more facts you can add to your list," Bernie continued with a smile.

"Oh, what's that?" the lieutenant asked, frowning.

"His approximate height and weight."

Both detectives looked down at the roughly assembled body. Mike pursed his lips. "So… what? Six-one, six-two and about, oh… two-twenty? Two twenty-five?"

Bernie glanced at Steve, nodding. "Pretty good, Mike. I'd say you're in the ballpark."

Mike studied the corpse. "Yeah, he's a little bigger than me."

"Any cause of death yet?" Steve asked, his own eyes continuing to sweep the grisly specter before them.

"Not yet. I still have to do the autopsy on the torso, as you can see. I'll get to that after lunch and should have results for you by the end of the day. Does that work for you?"

Mike nodded, still looking at the body parts. "Yeah, yeah… that'll be fine." Deep in thought, he turned to his partner. "We gotta find that head."

# # # # #

Mike dropped heavily onto Steve's desk, waiting with as much patience as he could muster for the younger man to complete his phone call. Eventually hanging up, he turned his attention to his older colleague.

"I just got off the phone with Bernie. He finished the autopsy."

Steve could tell from his partner's demeanor that it wasn't good news. "And?"

"And we still don't have a cause of death. The guy was perfectly healthy, from what Bernie can tell. No heart problems, his lungs, kidneys, liver, everything was nice and healthy."

"So we know what that means, right?" Steve sighed loudly before repeating what was rapidly becoming their mantra. "We gotta find that head."

# # # # #

With a heavy sigh, Mike pushed himself back from the desk, opening the bottom drawer and putting his right foot on it as he leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head. Steve got up from behind his own desk and crossed to the inner office door.

The small glass-walled room was quite dark; the late autumn sun had almost completely set and the overhead fluorescents were still off. Steve snapped the lights on. Mike looked up and smiled grimly.

"Was that Folsom?"

The older man nodded. "Yep. Everyone is accounted for." With a dismissive shake of his head, he sat forward again, taking his foot off the drawer and dropping his forearms onto the desk. He put the tips of his right fingers on the yellow legal pad on the desk and slid it towards his partner.

Steve dropped into the guest chair and picked up the pad. "So that's it, hunh?" His eyes scanned the list.

"I guess…"

Steve tossed the pad back onto the desk. It had been almost two full days since they had brought the six body parts to the Coroner's Office and they had still made no progress in identifying the dismembered body.

Because the parts had been found strewn along the southbound lanes of the I-80, they were working on the theory that the victim had been murdered somewhere in the Central Valley. They had spent the last 36 hours making phone calls to every police department, large and small, along the I-80 and the 505 corridors. And they had contacted the California Medical Facility in Vacaville as well as Folsom State Prison northeast of Sacramento in the hopes that maybe an inmate had gone missing.

They had hit one dead end after another.

"So, what now?"

Mike raised his eyebrows and picked up the phone. "Now? Now I give Bernie a call and tell him to put Mr. No-Nail back in the box and put him in the freezer."

With his own frustrated sigh, Steve got up and moved to the door. He stopped suddenly and turned back. "Jack."

Mike stopped dialing and looked up, brow furrowing. "What?"

"I think we should start calling him 'Jack'."

"Jack…?"

Steve bobbed his eyebrows and smiled, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"… in the box," Mike finished dryly before dropping his head theatrically with a heavy sigh. Then he chuckled and looked up. "That's good," he admitted, starting to grin. "I like that." He continued dialing.

With a laugh, Steve crossed to his desk.

# # # # #

Slamming the receiver down on the cradle, the young inspector jumped to his feet and strode rapidly to the inner office door, notepad in hand.

Mike had the phone to his ear. "Yes… yes, I promise… yes, as soon as I hang up the phone… yes… well, I can't do it till I hang up, can I?... Okay… yes, fine, I'll call you tonight and let you know if I'm successful…" He glanced up and caught his partner's eye, making a frustrated face as he held up a forefinger. "Yes, I promise… okay… okay… okay, good-bye." He dropped the black receiver onto the cradle with a growl. "Dear god, you'd think I'd never ordered a turkey before…"

Steve frowned, his mouth slightly open, obviously confused. "A turkey...?"

Mike stared at him. "A fresh turkey… for Christmas? We always get a fresh one from Albert's every year." He pointed at the phone. "That was Jeannie. She was reminding me that today's the last day they take orders for their fresh Christmas turkeys and I still have to call."

The younger man's eyes had glazed over. "Ummm, Christmas turkey…"

Mike did a faint double take. "Don't worry, you're invited," he chuckled then pointed at the notepad in the younger man's hand. "You got something?"

Steve shook his head slightly then looked at the pad. "Oh, ah, yeah." He was suddenly reanimated, stepping closer to the corner of the desk. "I think we might have a lead on identifying Jack."

Mike frowned. "Jack?"

"Yeah, Jack, remember? Mr. No-Nail?" It had been almost two weeks since they'd had to shelve that particular investigation. They had covered three homicides since then, two that were wrapped up almost immediately and one they were still working on. But because it was the murder of a known drug dealer, time was not of the essence.

"Oh, yeah, him. Great. What have you got?"

"Some guy just walked into the Davis Police Department wondering if they could help him find his friend, who disappeared about three weeks ago."


	6. Chapter 6

"And just who is this friend of yours whose gone missing, Mr. Patterson?"

They were sitting in a small, stark but weirdly pleasant interrogation room in the Davis Police Department's F Street headquarters. Steve thought it was the plush and comfortable black swivel chairs, a true step up from the straight-backed wooden ones in Homicide. He would have to speak to Captain Olsen when they returned, he thought with a silent chuckle.

Davis Police Chief Calvin Powell had met them when they arrived after the almost two-hour trip up the interstate, a route they had already travelled around two weeks earlier. And, wishing them luck, had left them to their own devices after introducing them to Adam Patterson, who had been patiently waiting since he'd entered the red brick building early that morning to tell them about his missing friend.

The slightly pudgy, crew-cut, bespectacled man, who was wearing a brown and beige checked sportscoat over a white, tieless shirt leaned forward almost nervously. He had never spoken to big city cops before, let alone Homicide cops, and it showed.

He licked his dry lips. "Um, ah, his name is Stanley… ah, Stanley Kowalczyk –"

"Polish," Mike smiled, glancing at Steve, his demeanor so disarming Patterson smiled back.

"Yeah… yeah… He's proud of that. But he's American; he was born here. His parents, they're from the old country."

Mike was nodding; Steve smiled to himself as he made a notation on the pad on the table before him.

"Go on," the lieutenant encouraged, "why do you think he's missing?"

"Well, Stan, he's a sweet guy, and he's really bright, he really is, but he's… he's naïve, you know. And I think he fell in with the wrong crowd…" Patterson looked down and shook his head once, angrily. "Hell, I _know_ he fell in with the wrong crowd, 'cause I was with them too."

The detectives shared a glance; Steve leaned forward. "What kind of 'wrong crowd' are you talking about?"

Patterson took several seconds before he looked up. "Have you guys ever heard of Anton LaVey?"

Both cops pulled back slightly; Mike looked at Steve, raising his eyebrows. The younger man nodded. It was Mike's turn to lean forward; he put his forearms on the table. "Are you talking about the guy who formed that… what'd you call it, that Church of Satan in San Francisco?"

Swallowing heavily, Patterson nodded vigorously. "That's the guy."

"And you're telling us that Stanley is a member of LaVey's church?" Steve asked, not taking his eyes from the obviously worried man.

" _Was_ … he _was_ a member. Like I was." He dropped his head again.

"When did you get out?" Mike asked quietly.

"Three years ago… I just couldn't take it anymore, it wasn't what I thought it was when I joined, you know…"

As much as the detectives wanted to know more, they needed to find out if the body parts in a freezer in the San Francisco morgue were those of Stanley Kowalczyk. "Do you know when Stanley left?" Mike asked.

Patterson looked at him. "Yeah, about eight months ago. But he didn't exactly leave the church entirely, like I did. A couple of the… the higher ups in the church, they wanted to go off on their own, start their own churches, you know? And Stan went with one of them… Quite a few people did."

"Who was it, the one that Stanley followed?"

Patterson looked from Mike to Steve and back again. "You have to understand about Stan. He, ah… he graduated with an engineering degree from UCLA Davis, right in town here." He gestured vaguely around the room with his right hand, a proud smile lighting his plain face. "He worked for Lockheed Martin down in Palmdale for quite awhile, and he said he loved it, but about five years ago a rich uncle died and left him a bunch of money. He didn't have to work so he quit and he just drifted. That's when he joined the church."

Mike's eyes slid towards his partner; when they met, he blinked slowly. Steve knew exactly what the older man was thinking; the revelation of the inheritance added an entirely new wrinkle to the investigation, if indeed the body was Kowalczyk's.

Mike reached out and placed his right hand, palm down, on the table in front of Patterson, decreasing the distance between them. "We want to know more about Stan and the church but first, Adam, if you don't mind, could you describe Stan for us please?"

Patterson's eyes, which had been boring into Mike's, now flashed quickly from one cop to the other. "Why?" he asked, his voice suddenly strained. "Is he dead?" His eyes snapped back and forth again. "Oh my god, Chief Powell told me you were from Homicide… I don't know why I didn't make the connection…" His tone was becoming shrill and panicked.

"No no no," Mike said quickly and gently with a warm and reassuring smile, as only he could, "no, it's not that at all. We just want to know what Stan looks like so we can be on the lookout for him, that's all." It wasn't a total lie, and if it helped to calm the increasingly distraught man even a little, it was worth the risk.

Breathing heavily through his nose, Patterson's eyes shifted slowly from Mike to Steve. "He's not dead?"

"We have no knowledge that he is, believe me," the younger cop attempted to sooth the agitated man. "We'd tell you if we did, you have my word."

Patterson swallowed heavily again and looked down. After several long silent seconds, he whispered, "I think he is."

The partners exchanged a look again, this time unobserved. "Why do you say that?" Steve asked gently.

"The guy he left the church for…" Patterson raised his head. "He calls himself The Reverend Jimmy Scott but I don't think that's his real name. And he's scary… he's really scary."

"Scary?" Steve echoed softly. "What do you mean scary?"

There was a long silence. Patterson started quietly. "I'm only telling you what Stan told me, okay?... I never met the guy. He joined the church after I left. But Stan said that right from the start, he was different… he was…charismatic. Even more than LeVay, and that's something, believe me. There are few people out there who are more charismatic than LeVay." He snorted mirthlessly. "But Stan says Scott was…

"Anyway, Scott wanted to start his own church, and I guess about ten, fifteen people went with him. They left the city – they left San Francisco and came up this way. They bought a small farm – probably with Stan's money," he added with a sad shake of his head. "Stan didn't tell me that but I always thought it. And that was when it started to get really weird…"

Patterson's eyes slid from Mike to Steve and he hesitated for several long seconds. "You ever heard of Spahn Ranch?"

Steve's head went back slightly and his eyes widened. He felt Mike turn towards him, frowning. "Yeah…" he answered softly with a slight nod.

Patterson almost smiled. "That's what he was hoping to build up here."

Slowly, Steve's eyes left Patterson's and met his partners'. "Spahn Ranch is where Charles Manson and 'The Family' were living when they committed the Tate-LaBianca murders in '69."

Mike took this in, slowly turning back to face Patterson. "That's what he wanted to build up here? He wanted a family like Mansons?" His voice was eerily quiet.

The bespectacled, frightened man shook his head. "I don't know about that, but I do know he worshiped Charlie Manson. Thought he was a god or something. Stan told me that's why he wanted to locate his… _church_ up here near Vacaville, 'cause Manson'd spent a few months there last year at the CMF instead of up in Folsom. Scott seemed to think it was 'ordained' or something like that. Like I said, he was scary… and nuts…"

"What happened to Scott, do you know? Like, where is he now?" Steve prompted.

Patterson took a deep breath. "Now? I have no idea. The last time Stan saw him, I think, was just before he left the church." He snorted mirthlessly. "Stan was his last… disciple, I guess you could call it. Everybody else had left. Stan was the last…"

"Why did he stay, do you think?" Mike asked gently.

Patterson shook his head. "I don't know… I wish I did. I mean, we'd gotten together a couple of times and talked about it. I tried to tell Stan what Scott was becoming but he didn't believe me… I don't think he wanted to believe me, if you know what I mean... And I don't know what hold Scott had over him, I really don't… they were polar opposites in every way. I mean, even physically. Stan showed me a picture of him. He's this little pale stick of a guy with stringy mouse-coloured hair - which he dyed black like Manson's, of course. And Stan is this big bear of a man." He chuckled fondly and sadly at the memory, looking down.

Mike sat up a little straighter. They had finally gotten back around to the one topic he wanted so desperately to pursue. "About that," he began almost casually, "could you describe Stan for us please? It would really be a big help."

There was a long silence as Patterson looked up and almost smiled. "Stan's a big guy… one of those gentle giants I guess you could call him. I mean he isn't like super tall but I'm only five five and he towers over me so he's, I don't know, six one or six two. He's always been a little overweight too – not a lot," he corrected quickly, "I mean he can still move fast when he needs to but he is carrying some extra pounds. He has a round face and straight, sorta longish dark blond hair. The last time I saw him he had this straggly beard but he told me he was going to shave it off; it wasn't growing in like he wanted, he said."

Steve was rapidly making notes while Mike maintained eye contact, hoping to draw as much out of the man as possible.

"Do you know if Stan had any tattoos or anything like that? A birthmark maybe? Anything unusual…?"

Seeming to shift his focus inward, as if trying to remember, Patterson shook his head with a facial shrug. "No, not that I can remember, unless he got a tattoo recently and didn't tell me, but I think that's something he would've told me. We were pretty close." Suddenly his eyebrows shot up. "I have a picture of him," he blurted, shifting in the chair to take a thin brown leather wallet out of his back pocket. As the detectives exchanged another hopeful look, he pulled the small, dog-eared colour print out of the wallet and reached across the table.

Mike took the small photo and held it so Steve could see it as well. It was a slightly blurry shot of about a dozen people, casually dressed, standing in a group and smiling for the camera. Patterson leaned forward and pointed at a man standing at the back; only his head was visible. "That's Stan."

The photo was of no use and both detectives knew it immediately. Mike smiled his thanks and handed it back; Patterson slipped it into the wallet again.

"When was the last time you saw him?" Steve asked.

"I guess it was about three weeks ago… just before Thanksgiving. He was upset, I remember that. He told me Scott was trying to get in touch with him. He'd called Stan's home a couple of times and was begging him to come back to his church. Stan was torn… he didn't want to go back 'cause Scott was starting to scare him but it was like he felt, I don't know, obligated to the –" He stopped himself, closing his eyes. "I just wish I could have talked more sense into him."

"Do you know where Stan lives?" Steve asked carefully, knowing they would need to check out the residence if their body did turn out to be Kowalcyzk's.

"Yeah, yeah, it's on East 8th. I don't know the number, I just know the building. I can take you there if you want."

"If we need you to, that would be great," Mike smiled, trying to hide his disappointment at not getting what he needed from Patterson. "Well, Adam, I think Steve and I have enough. We'll let Chief Powell know what you've told us and we'll do a little digging for you, but hopefully Stan'll turn up before you know it, safe and sound." He glanced at his partner, who snapped the notebook shut and put the pen in the breast pocket of his jacket before getting to his feet.

Mike reached across the table and shook Patterson's hand. "Thank you very much, you've been a big help," he white lied with a smile before standing, picking up the fedora from the end of the table and turning to the door.

As the lieutenant put his hand on the doorknob, Patterson said suddenly. "Oh my god, I almost forgot. Um, when Stan was a teenager, he told me he worked for a summer at the steel mills in Fontana. He dropped an ingot on his right foot and smashed his big toe. The toe healed completely but his nail never grew back." He looked at the two detectives with wide, innocent eyes. "Does that help?"


	7. Chapter 7

Mike froze for a split second then released the doorknob and took a step back into the room. "So you're saying that Stan…?" He let the rest of the question hang.

Patterson, surprised by the reaction his recollection had elicited from the two San Francisco detectives, inclined his head slightly. "That Stan doesn't have a nail on his right big toe…" he said tentatively, looking from one almost immobile cop to the other. "That means something to you, doesn't it?" His voice was soft and suddenly filled with trepidation.

With a quick glance at his partner, Mike returned to the table, tossed the fedora back on the far end and sat. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat then leaned forward, laying his forearms on the table and clasping his hands. "Mr. Patterson," he began formally, "we have reason to believe that your friend Mr. Kowalczyk may have been murdered a couple of weeks ago."

His eyes suddenly filling with tears, Patterson dropped his head. "I thought so," he whispered. Mike waited as he took a few deep, steadying breaths before slowly looking up again. "You, ah… you needed to know about his toenail before you could tell me that, didn't you?" Mike nodded. Patterson hesitated before asking, "Is that because you can't identify him?"

His features creased in sympathy, Mike nodded again. "I'm afraid so."

Patterson closed his eyes. "How did he die?"

Mike glanced at Steve as the younger man sat beside his partner again. "We, ah, we don't know yet," the younger cop said gently.

Stan Kowalczyk's best friend opened his eyes and stared at the SFPD inspector. "Why?" he almost whispered, a tremour in his voice, as if he knew the answer before he asked the question.

Steve's eyes flicked towards his partner and he saw Mike nod almost imperceptibly. He leaned forward slightly. "Because his body was dismembered…"

Patterson inhaled quickly and deeply and closed his eyes once more. He bit his bottom lip. "Oh god," he breathed quietly, dropping his head into his hands. After a few long seconds, he looked up again. "You think Jimmy Scott did it?"

Steve shrugged. "We have no idea. We haven't been able to do any real investigation yet because we didn't know whose body we had." He smiled slightly, gratefully. "And thanks to you, now we do."

"Believe me, Adam," Mike offered encouragingly, "Steve and I are going to do everything in our power to bring whoever did this to Mr. Kowalczyk to justice. You have our word." Beside him, Steve nodded.

Patterson sat there quietly for a couple of long seconds then met the older detective's eyes. "What can I do to help?"

"Well, for starters, we need to get into Stan's residence, to see if there's anything there that can tell us what happened."

Patterson's eyes widened and he glanced quickly back and forth between them. He looked suddenly revitalized. "I can do that. I can take you to his apartment."

"That's good, that's good," Mike nodded encouragingly. "And, do you know if Stan had any family that we need to contact, any next of kin?"

Patterson thought about it for a few seconds then shrugged and shook his head. "I, ah, I don't think so. I know his parents are dead… and I don't think he has any brothers or sisters, but I can't be sure. I'm sorry."

Mike smiled. "There's no need to be sorry. It's okay, we can find that stuff out." He reached for the fedora. "Listen, ah, we have to go talk to Chief Powell, tell him what's happened. Are you okay to stay here for a little bit while we do that, and then we can go to Stan's place?"

Nodding vigorously, Patterson almost smiled. "I, ah, I took the day off…"

"Good," Mike said sharply, slapping the table with his free hand as he got to his feet. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

As Steve got to the door, he turned back. "Listen, ah, can we get you anything? A sandwich, or a coffee?"

"They brought me lunch earlier, thanks… but would it be possible to get a Coke?"

"Sure. I'll get them to bring you one."

As the door closed on the two detectives, Patterson stared into space for several long seconds, then dropped his head into his hands and began to cry.

# # # # #

The Linden Apartments was a squat three-storey beige brick building near the university campus. It didn't look like the residence of a man who had come into a good deal of money, the detectives thought as the tan sedan pulled into an empty spot across the street.

From the back seat Adam Patterson pointed at the building. "Stan's apartment is the corner one up there on the third floor. Number 14."

Mike turned in the front seat. "Okay, now remember what we told you. You can come into the apartment with us but you are not to touch anything, right?"

Patterson nodded once. "Yes, sir."

"Okay." The older detective looked across the seat at his partner. "Well, let's hope Powell got in touch with the owner and he's here with a key. I'd hate to see you have to kick the door in," he chuckled as he opened the car door and got out.

As they crossed the street towards the apartment building, Steve shook his head and laughed. "Are you kidding? I'd get one of the unies to do it." He gestured at the two large Davis Police Department patrolmen who were already waiting for them at the entrance.

Luckily, the building's owner had already arrived and within minutes they were stepping across the threshold into the surprisingly large one-bedroom apartment. Taking Mike's words to heart, Patterson stood in the hallway until the four cops made sure the apartment was unoccupied then he was invited in. The two uniformed cops returned to the hallway.

"Does anything look disturbed to you… or missing maybe?" Mike asked as Patterson stood in the centre of the living room and looked around. The small apartment was sparsely furnished and there was nothing on the walls. It seemed barely lived in.

Patterson shrugged noncommittally. "He really doesn't have much so… no? It looks like I remember it." He shrugged again. "Sorry…"

"No no, don't be sorry," Mike said quickly. "You're really helping a lot. So, ah, you said Stan showed you a picture of Jimmy Scott, right? Would you, ah," he pointed vaguely around the room, "would you know where it could be? It would really be a big help to us if we knew what Scott looked like."

"Oh sure," Patterson said quickly, crossing to a small desk that was tucked into a corner of the room. He rifled through the drawers, stopping when he found a loose stack of photographs. He took them out, dropped them on the desk and began to paw through them. "It should be here somewhere…" he mumbled, seemingly to himself.

Steve sidled up beside him. "Any chance there's a better picture of Stan in that pile?"

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Patterson almost smiled. "Yeah, here." He picked up a colour print of a genial-looking, slightly overweight man wearing a chef's hat and a massive grin standing over a bar-b-que, tongs in hand. When Steve took it, he continued, "The church had picnics in Golden Gate Park once in a while… sort of like recruitment picnics. LeVay never went; it was Stan's idea and LeVay let him do it."

Glancing up from the photo, Steve asked, "Did he ever recruit anyone at these picnics?"

Patterson shook his head. "No, people just wanted the free food."

Both detectives chuckled gently. The small man went back to the stack of photos. "Ah, here it is!" he exclaimed finally, straightening up with a larger than normal print in his hand. "This is him – this is Jimmy Scott."

Mike crossed the room to look over Steve's shoulder when the younger cop took the photo from Patterson. It was a black-and-white shot of a small, almost feral-looking man with dead eyes, dressed in a black robe and standing in front of what looked like a brick fireplace and mantel. The walls of the room seemed to be painted black.

"That was taken in the Church of Satan," Patterson explained. "That's the altar."

Mike, who had put his glasses on, shot Stan Kowalczyk's best friend a bewildered glance that Steve caught. "The altar?" the older man asked. "It looks like a fireplace."

Patterson grimaced. "Yeah, it kinda is… LeVay used it as an altar."

Mike pointed at the photo. "Is that a pentagram?"

Steve glanced over his shoulder. "No, it's not, but it looks like one. See the goat's head?"

"Yeah," Patterson agreed. "It's actually called the Sigil of Baphomet. Some people that hated the church and everything it stood for used to say that LaVey designed it, but he didn't and he never said he did. It's been around for centuries… he just used it."

Steve handed the photo to his partner, who studied it a little closer before turning to their companion. "Can we keep this?" he asked.

Patterson shrugged. "I don't see why not… Stan has no use for it now, does he?" The sadness had returned to his tone and he hung his head.

Mike glanced at Steve, raising his eyebrows. The younger man nodded slightly towards the door and Mike nodded. "Listen, ah, Adam, I think we're gonna be okay here on our own, Steve and me. Why don't we get those patrolmen out there to give you a lift home, okay?"

"But my car is at the police department –" Patterson began.

"Then they can take you back there. We want to thank you for everything you've done for us today, you've helped us more than you can know."

"We're really sorry about Stan," Steve offered. "From what you told us, he seemed like a nice guy who got caught up in something he shouldn't of, right?"

Patterson nodded sadly. "I hope you catch whoever did it… and if it isn't Jimmy Scott, then whoever it is…"

"We will," Mike nodded, "don't you worry about that. We will. And if we need any more information from you, we'll call, okay. Steve has your phone number."

With a grateful nod, Patterson shook both their hands and walked towards the door.

"Hey, fellas," Mike called out and one of the officers poked his head in the doorway. "Can you give Mr. Patterson here a lift back to the station?"

"You bet, Lieutenant."

When they were alone, Mike let his eyes drift over the contents of the living room once more. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"What? That this is not the home of a man with money?"

"Yeah… I'm starting to think that maybe our Mr. Stanley Kowalczyk was beginning to realize he had thrown his fortune away and that's why he 'excommunicated' himself from Scott's so-called church… and maybe Mr. Scott wasn't too happy about that."

Steve nodded slowly, as they both continued to log everything in the room in their mind's eyes. "I'm starting to think you're right."

Mike glanced at his watch. "Listen, ah, I don't know about you but I'd like to get home before midnight. I don't think we're gonna find much here that's gonna help us uncover who murdered our Mr. Kowalczyk, but I want to trace his bank history and find out exactly where all his money went, don't you?"

"That seems like a good place to start."

"Yeah, so let's see if we can find ourselves a chequebook or a cancelled cheque or something like that and save us the trouble of having to call all the banks in town."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

# # # # #

A little less than an hour later, with two cancelled cheques and an old passbook in their possession, the two San Francisco homicide detectives made their way down to their car, knowing that the investigation into the murder of Stanley Kowalczyk had only just begun. They would have a lot of avenues to go down and a lot of leads to explore before they could put it to bed, of that they were certain.

But now they had a name for their body, and a possible suspect. All things considered, their road trip had been very successful.

Closing the passenger side door, Mike glanced at his watch. "Listen, ah, it's almost seven. I don't know about you but I'm starved. Why don't we look for a little mom-and-pop diner somewhere between here and the highway and grab a bite to eat?"

"I like how your mind works, Lieutenant," Steve agreed with a chuckle as he stuck in the key in the ignition and started the car.

"Good. Then let's do that," Mike laughed softly, shaking his head affectionately, pleased that their day had turned out so well. He started to settle back against the seat when suddenly he shot bolt upright. "Damn it!"

Steve did a quick doubletake; Mike didn't curse very often. "What?"

The older man turned to him with a sick expression. "The turkey… I forgot about the damn turkey…"


	8. Chapter 8

For about the fiftieth time, Steve glanced across the front seat. Even though the interior of the car was dark, the sun having long retired for the night, he could still see the angst writ large on his partner's face. Every once in awhile he thought he could make out the mumbled words, "Damn turkey…"

They were on the I-80, on the span over the Carquinez Strait, when Steve had enough of the silence and ventured lightly, "So… why can't you get a turkey from somewhere else this year? I mean a turkey is… just a turkey… isn't it?"

From the corner of his eye he could see Mike's head turn very slowly towards him. There was a long, almost pregnant pause before the older man said flatly, "Not according to Jeannie, it isn't."

Trying not to smile, Steve changed lanes, stepping on the gas pedal a little harder. He really wanted to get home before he lost it altogether. He knew his partner wouldn't appreciate any unbridled levity at this, to him, traumatic moment. "So, ah, so what are you going to do?"

If it was at all possible, Mike slumped down in the seat even more. "First thing in the morning I'm going to call Albert's and see if they'll take pity on me and put my name on the list. I'm going to appeal to their better nature… and remind them how loyal a customer the Stone family has been for the last fifteen years."

"And if that doesn't work?"

A loud sigh filled the car. "Then I'll have to think of something before Jeannie gets home for the holidays."

Steve chuckled. "You really think she'll know the difference… one turkey from another?"

"I'd bet my bottom dollar on it." Mike nodded to himself. "She's that good… she really is."

Steve laughed to himself as he swung the sedan back into the right lane; the highway was still pretty empty but he knew it would start to get busier the closer they got to The City. "Speaking of dollars, where do you want to start in the morning?"

As if snapped out of his reverie, Mike sat up a little straighter. "Well, we got a lot of ground to cover just to get started. We'll need to get a court order to get access to Kowalczyk's bank records. And I want to know everything there is to know about this Reverend Jimmy Scott. We're gonna have to go down to that… Church of Satan," he spat out with a low growl. "I want to talk to anybody and everybody who crossed paths with Scott while he was with the church and I want to find out who went with him, besides Stan, when he left."

Steve was nodding. "We're gonna need to find out where that… ranch he bought is, too."

Mike nodded. "Yeah, that too." He fell silent for a couple of seconds. "You know, if he did kill Stan, he's had over two weeks to get himself lost. He could be halfway around the world by now."

"I know." Steve shoulder-checked, then pulled out into the fast lane again. "You know, I read that Bugliosi book not too long ago - about Charlie Manson and the murders?" He felt his partners' eyes on him. "You know, Mike, if the Reverend Jimmy Scott is fancying himself the new Manson, we might have a very big problem on our hands."

# # # # #

Mike was on the phone, in his office with the door closed, when Steve walked into the bullpen the next morning a little before 9. Shrugging off his jacket and dropping it onto the back of his chair but continuing to stand, he rifled through the messages stuffed under the phone, keeping one eye on the inner office.

After about a minute, he saw Mike hang up the receiver and then stare at the black phone with a hangdog look.

Steve crossed to the office, opened the door and leaned against the frame, crossing his arms. "Am I to take it you're not getting a turkey from Albert's this year?"

His lips pursed, Mike raised his eyes slowly. "They said there was nothing they could do. The list is closed for this year. No exceptions."

"Not even for the loyal Stone family?"

Mike's brow furrowed even deeper, then he started to smile and his shoulders shook. "Not even," he confirmed with a chuckling sigh.

Laughing gently, Steve pushed himself away from the door and dropped into the closest guest chair. "You know, when you told me last night not to pick you up this morning, I thought you might be coming in early to start on the Kowalczyk case, not call a butcher."

With a smirk, Mike leaned back slowly and smiled. "What makes you think I didn't? I've already talked to Gerry about a court order for the bank records and I put calls into DMV and the State, and I'm getting a background check done. And I talked to Ross in Bunco – he's an early starter too, by the way - about Anton LaVey and the Church of Satan. He's putting together a folder for us and he's going to let us know when Dean Santori gets in; seems he's the guy whose been following the Church and its dubious goings on for the past several years."

"There's been Bunco complaints against them?"

"From what I gather; I don't have any of the details yet. Something about the Church not living up to people's expectations or something like that," Mike offered with a bemused shake of his head and a shrug. "Anyway, I want us to have a good solid background on the church and everyone involved before we go there trying to find out anything about Jimmy Scott. You agree?"

"Oh yeah," Steve said, getting up. "Well, before we dive into the deep end of the pool here, I have a few phone calls I have to return." He paused at the door and turned back. "I have a feeling that once we get rolling on this, it's gonna go a lot faster than we think it will."

Mike tilted his head. "I hope you're right. I'd like to wrap this up before Christmas… for us and for Stan."

# # # # #

They had spent most of the day on the phone and in various meetings; Steve with Dean Santori from Bunco and Mike with the brass. By the time they left for home, they were satisfied they had laid some pretty solid groundwork.

Walking back into the office early the next morning, Mike was surprised to see a large manila envelope sitting on his desk as he dropped the fedora onto the coat rack and hung the topcoat up. As he slid the contents out onto the desk, he glanced up; Steve was crossing to the coffee area. "Got the bank records!" he called out.

"That was quick." The younger man was fishing in his pocket for change. By the time he walked into his boss's office with two steaming cups in hand, Mike was sitting behind the desk, glasses on, studying the stapled raft of papers.

"Anything?" Steve asked as he dropped into the guest chair after putting the second mug on the desk near his partner's elbow.

Without taking his eyes from the papers, Mike pursed his lips and nodded. "Yeah," he said slowly. He glanced at the cup then picked it up. "Thanks," he mumbled before taking a sip. "This is very interesting…" He pulled the top sheet free from the staple and handed it across the table to the younger man.

Steve studied the page then looked up quickly, frowning. "He emptied his bank account two months ago?"

Mike nodded, matching the frown. "Looks like it…"

"Three hundred thousand dollars…" Steve tilted his head and whistled.

"Look at this." Mike had flipped another page over and handed the entire stack of papers to the younger man then waited as Steve's eyes scanned the pages, poring through the information quickly but carefully. Eventually he looked up.

"So Patterson was right." Mike nodded in agreement. Steve leaned forward, putting the papers down and resting his forearms on the edge of the desk. "So Stan inherits… what?" His eyes sought and found what he needed on the top sheet. "Seven hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars from this 'rich uncle' five years ago and doesn't spend it at first, then starts to take it out ten thousand at a time, about every two months, until about a year and a half ago."

Mike was nodding slowly. "So, what? He was supporting the church…tithing, I guess you could call it. But then something happens… a falling out maybe? He starts to think about leaving the church to go with Scott and he stops giving them money…?"

"Yeah, that makes sense. So he goes off with Scott to start this new church up near Davis…" Steve's eyes dropped back to the papers on the desk, "and then suddenly we get this withdrawal of fifty thousand." He looked up at his partner. "To buy the 'ranch', do you think?"

Mike's eyebrows rose and he shrugged. "Makes sense to me."

"Yeah." Steve looked back down at the page. "Then seven weeks later we have another withdrawal, this time for forty thousand, then another thirty thousand two weeks after that…. And then he closes the account – almost three hundred thousand." He met his partner's eyes with a confused frown. "What? You think he gave it all to Scott."

Mike tilted his head and shrugged again. "Maybe. Or maybe he started to realize that he was being played, and he took the money out to hide it from Scott. I think we need to find out if he opened another bank account somewhere, in another branch or another bank altogether."

"Good idea. I'll look into that." He picked up the papers, got up and turned to the door.

"You know, Steve," Mike stopped him, "he might have just asked for it in cash, to make sure Scott couldn't get his hands on it. For all we know, Scott could've had access to Stan's account. Listen, ah, give Stan's bank branch a call when they open and find out how he wanted the money when he closed the account. I want to know where that money is."

# # # # #

Dragging himself wearily from his desk, glancing at his watch, Steve crossed to the inner office. Mike was on the phone again, busy making notes, when he opened the door and quietly took a seat.

"Okay, great… yes, yes, we'll be there tomorrow morning… yes, thank you very much." Mike dropped the receiver onto the cradle, made another notation on the yellow legal pad in front of him then looked up. "We have a meeting tomorrow morning with a representative of the Church of Satan. That should be fun," he noted dryly. "So what's up?"

"Do you know how many banks there are in Davis?" the younger man asked with an exaggeratedly tired sigh.

Mike chuckled, making a small beckoning motion with his right fingers. "Just give me the nuts and bolts, Sisyphus."

Snorting a short laugh, Steve leaned forward. "Well, there is no record in any bank in Davis of a Stan Kowalczyk opening an account in the past four months. I could expand my inquiry to towns outside of Davis but…" He shrugged.

Mike leaned forward and shook his head. "No no no, don't bother. I don't think Stan was that crafty. We know from his own branch that he took it all out in cash, and we didn't find it in his apartment…"

"Well, we weren't exactly looking for a stash of cash, now were we?"

Mike chuckled. "True. Maybe I'll give Chief Powell a call and have them do it. Unless, of course, you want to drive back up there –"

"No, thanks," Steve said quickly, cutting him off. "I have a date tonight I really want to keep, if you know what I mean?" He raised his eyebrows tellingly.

Mike's smile was slow to build and he sat back with deliberation. "That new blonde down in Records?"

Steve frowned. "How do you know about her?"

With an almost evil chuckle, eyebrows on the rise and grin turning Cheshire, Mike shook his head knowingly. "I have spies everywhere… you must have realized that by now…"

Grumbling good-naturedly, Steve got to his feet and crossed to the door. "You, ah, you have a phone call to make to Chief Powell remember, Lieutenant?" he said, pointing back at the black phone before he crossed to his own desk.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Mike called after him with a laugh. "It _is_ the blonde, isn't it?"


	9. Chapter 9

"So you're not going to tell me anything about your date last night?" Mike whined again as the tan sedan turned onto California.

With a smug, closed-mouthed smile, Steve shook his head.

"Aw come on, you know I live vicariously through you, right?"

The smile turned into a deep chuckle but the young man remained silent.

"Okay, fine, have it your way," Mike mumbled to himself as he looked out the side window and sighed. "Partnership is a two-way street, I always thought… but maybe I'm wrong…"

"There it is," Steve said suddenly, pointing through the windshield with his chin, trying not to laugh. He saw Mike's focus shift from exaggerated self-pity to alert detective in a split second.

The sedan swung into a free spot on the street about half a block away and they got out. "It's a lot smaller that I thought it would be," Mike said with snort of derision as he slammed the door. "If it wasn't black, you wouldn't even notice it."

The Victorian two-storey wooden structure stood out from its bland, boxy neighbours only because of the colour. _It looks downright puny,_ Mike thought as they got closer. A large red brick staircase led to a small porch and a heavy wooden door with a circular window. Black curtains were drawn over the large bay window on the first floor and the three small vertical windows facing the street on the second.

Swallowing a smile, Steve glanced over his shoulder at his already frowning partner as they jogged up the staircase to the front door. He quickly located the bell and pushed it; they could hear a sonorous ding-dong from inside.

Almost immediately the door opened and a man dressed in a black suit with a black shirt and tie, his dark hair slicked back from his almost cadaverous face, smiled at them from beneath startlingly blue eyes. "You must be Lieutenant Stone," he greeted pleasantly, his eyes meeting Mike's, then turned to Steve. "Inspector Keller?" He held out his right hand and both detectives shook it. "My name is Caspar Stanton."

Surprised but covering it quickly, Mike smiled. "Yes, we talked yesterday. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us."

"My pleasure." Stanton glanced over his shoulder as he stepped over the threshold to join them on the porch, closing the door firmly. "Like I said on the phone, Lieutenant, Mr. LaVey doesn't allow non-believers to enter the Church, so I'm afraid we'll have to do this out here. Do you mind?"

Still smiling, Mike shook his head. "Not at all." It was a chilly but pleasant late fall day.

"Thank you. Mr. LaVey would have liked to talk to you himself, I'm sure, but like I also said, he's in Detroit this week. Church business. So, what can I do for you?"

Mike glanced at his partner and nodded. Steve cleared his throat slightly. "Mr. Stanton, we believe that a former member of your church was murdered recently –"

"Oh dear," Stanton interrupted, a pale hand coming up to cover his mouth. "Who would that be, may I ask?"

Mike tilted his head with a slight, apologetic grimace. "I'm afraid not. Next of kin hasn't been notified yet." It was a lie, but a convenient one. In the course of their investigation the previous day, they had discovered that Stan Kowalczyk had no next of kin that they could uncover as yet.

"I understand," Stanton said softly, nodding. "So, um, what can I do for you?" He turned his attention back to Steve.

"Well, we need a couple of things from you, Mr. Stanton. We understand that in the past year a few people have left the church to start their own… churches, is that right?"

"Yes, that's true. It's something that Mr. LaVey encourages. They're called 'grottos' – as a matter of fact that is where Mr. LaVey is right now, at a new grotto in Detroit. There are a number throughout the country and we're exploring new ones around the world. The church is growing."

Mike raised his eyebrows and nodded; it was all Steve could do not to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from grinning. "So what you're saying," he continued, trying to ignore his partner, "is that everyone who has left the church recently has done so with the church's blessing?"

Stanton hesitated, his perpetual smile slipping slightly as he glanced towards the lieutenant, who was staring at him intently. "Well, um, no… not really. We have had some people leave who were… shall I say, disappointed in the beliefs of our church."

"Disappointed in what way?" Mike asked, not taking his eyes from the smaller man's pale face.

"Disappointed in the fact that we do not, in fact, worship Satan. That the Satan we refer to is rather the one from the root of the Hebrew word for 'adversary', not the Satan from the Bible." Stanton shrugged. "Some seem to confuse us with cults which do worship the Bible's Satan, which we are not."

"Well, would the Church be open to providing us with a list of the members who have left in the past year?" Mike put a hand lightly on Stanton's forearm. "I promise we'll be discreet."

Stanton stared at the older cop, frowning. "Do you think one of them may be the murderer?"

"We have to cover all bases, Mr. Stanton. No one is beyond suspicion."

There was a brief nod. "I understand," he said quietly, obviously mulling over the request. "Yes, Lieutenant, I can give you that list, and any addresses that we have, although I doubt any of them will still be relevant. I'll get it together for you early this afternoon. Would that be all right?"

"That would be perfect. When you have it, just give me a call and we'll swing by and pick it up. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Ah, you mentioned two things you wanted to talk about? What was the other?"

With a disarming smile, both of them watching Stanton closely, Mike asked easily, "Jimmy Scott – what can you tell us about him?"

Stanton froze almost imperceptibly, his eyes widening slightly. He swallowed heavily before saying with a strained indifference, "What about him?"

"Do you know him?" Steve asked bluntly.

The smaller man smiled. "Yes, Mr. Scott was a member of our church for about a year, I believe. But he left… oh, about eight, ten months ago, I guess." He turned his startling blue eyes on the lieutenant. "What do you wish to know about him?"

"What was he like?" Mike asked gently.

Clearing his throat, Stanton looked down briefly then met the senior detective's stare once again. "Mr. Scott was one of those people who joined the church under the assumption that we worshiped the Bible's Satan. He became… disillusioned and decided to leave the church earlier this year."

"To start his own church?" Steve asked and the blue eyes snapped in his direction.

After a startled second, Stanton raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. "Possibly… but I don't know."

"Well, we heard that he took a good number of your… congregation with him when he went upstate a ways and bought a ranch…" Mike stated flatly, prompting Stanton's wide eyes to swivel in his direction.

"With the intention of starting his own church, with his own family," Steve added, taking a half step towards the smaller man, who backed up closer to the black door.

Stanton's eyes snapped back and forth quickly, and he swallowed heavily again. He looked down and took a deep breath. "We were aware of what he was doing… but the Church wanted to cut all ties with him." He looked up at Mike. "He's dangerous, Lieutenant, more dangerous than we wanted to believe. And we were glad to see him go."

"Dangerous in what way?" Mike asked.

Stanton closed his eyes for a long second, biting his upper lip. "He's a sociopath, Lieutenant. He espouses love for the human race… but he couldn't care less." He looked at Steve. "There's nothing behind his eyes, Inspector. He's an empty shell, and a narcissist. He talks a good game, I'll give him that. He's a world class schmoozer, and he got on LaVey's good side. Hell, he even managed to persuade over a dozen of our members to go with him. But I didn't trust him from the moment I met him."

The detectives studied Stanton for a couple of seconds before Mike asked flatly, "Do you think he's capable of killing someone?"

Meeting Mike's stare evenly, Stanton almost smiled. "I think Scott is capable of anything, Lieutenant, up to and including murder."

# # # # #

"Do you believe him?" Mike asked as they were driving back to Bryant Street.

"About what? That he'll actually put the list together and give us a call, or what he said about Scott?"

"Both."

Steve thought about it for a second then nodded. "Yeah, I do. Especially about the list." He paused. "You could've asked him about that over the phone when you were talking to him yesterday. Why did you wait till we met him?"

"Because I wanted to tell if we could trust him. And I do." Mike smiled slightly then looked out the side window. He turned back abruptly. "Listen, you told me the other day that you read that book about Manson, right?"

"Yeah. _Helter Skelter._ "

"How much do you remember?"

"Well, none of the details but the overall gist and story. Why?"

"Do me a favor, will ya, and read it again? If Scott is fashioning himself after Manson, I want at least one of us to know what we might be going up against."

As Steve turned the sedan into the Hall of Justice parking lot, he nodded grimly. "I'll start as soon as I get home."

# # # # #

"You look tired, " Mike called out as Steve stopped behind his desk to drop his jacket onto the back of the chair before heading to the coffee pot.

"I was up till sometime after 3 re-reading that book. It's a big book, you know… I think I finally fell asleep… I don't remember. Woke up in my clothes about an hour ago." He dropped a dime into the can and picked up the almost full pot. "How fresh is this?" he asked to no one in particular.

"I just put it on," Lessing called from the far corner where he was standing beside the fax machine.

"Great," Steve mumbled under his breath as he filled a mug, then entered his partner's office to slump into the guest chair, leaning it back and putting a foot on the edge of the desk before taking a sip. "What time did you get in?" he asked to the top of Mike's head.

Glasses on, the older man was furiously making notes on a legal pad. "Hmm?" He didn't look up.

Chuckling, Steve shook his head. "I said what time did you get in?"

"Oh. Early."

With an affectionate smile, Steve took his foot off the desk and allowed the legs of the chair to drop to the floor. He leaned forward, the coffee cup still in his hand. "What are you working on?"

Another "Hmm?"

"I said –" he began, then stopped and reached out to slap his hand on the pad. Mike's head came up quickly, frowning, and he took the glasses off with a snap. "I said, what are you working on?"

Mike suddenly smiled. "Oh… sorry." He picked up several pages of foolscap and tossed them across the desk. "I've been working on the list that Stanton gave us." He had dropped Steve off early yesterday, with his marching orders to reread _Helter Skelter_ , then gone back to the Black House on California to get the list of ex-Church of Satan members.

Steve scanned the three pages; they were filled with names, addresses and dates. With a facial shrug, he held them up. "Wow, this looks pretty thorough. He was true to his word, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was," Mike agreed with a smile. "And it's panning out." He nodded towards the pages still in his partner's hand. "That second page there? That's the list of people who left the church with Scott. I've already called them all – well, the ones that have phone numbers or addresses. Most of the numbers are disconnected or just plain wrong, but I did get ahold of two people on that list. And they're willing to talk to us."

Steve was looking at the second page; two names were circled. "Annie Devereaux and John Castle."

Mike nodded. He looked at his watch. "Finish your coffee and grab your coat. We're meeting with Annie Devereaux in an hour over in Sausilito and I want to grab a bite to eat on the way."


	10. Chapter 10

"Would you like some tea? We have chamomile and sage," the tiny, fragile looking young woman with the long straight blonde hair asked as the two detectives sat on the burgundy velvet sofa in the small cluttered living room of the tiny red house on Bonita Street.

"No, thank you, we're fine," Mike answered for them both as Steve smiled with a shake of his head. "Miss Devereaux, we just have a few questions and then we'll be on our way, I promise."

"Annie, please… call me Annie," she said nervously, pushing her hair behind her right ear as she climbed into an armchair, folding her legs beneath her.

"All right," Mike agreed genially with a grin, "if you call us Mike," he pointed to himself, "and Steve, all right?"

When the handsome young cop smiled at her, she ducked her head quickly, but both men could see the corners of her mouth turn up and she bit her bottom lip before she nodded shyly.

"Good," Mike said with a nod, leaning forward slightly. "Now Annie, you told me on the phone that you were a member of the Church of Satan, is that right?"

She nodded again.

"How long were you with them?"

"Almost three years."

"Are you from The City?"

She shook her head vigorously. "No… no, I'm from Oklahoma. A friend of mine wanted to move out here and there was nothing to stay in Oklahoma for, so I came out here with her. She'd heard of the Church and she wanted to know what it was all about. So I went along with her, for something to do, I guess…" Her words faded away as she looked down, seemingly embarrassed. "My friend left the Church about three months after we joined… but I stayed. I'm not sure why… I guess I just felt like I finally belonged somewhere. I mean, it's not like we were worshiping Satan or anything, it wasn't like that at all. People don't really understand it, they don't."

"We're not here to judge you," Steve said softly, "we just want to know what happened with you and the Church, that's all."

"But I left the Church almost a year ago." She raised her eyes, looking at him from under her brow.

"Yes, we know that," Mike confirmed. "We're interested in the man you left the Church to follow."

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide and almost frightened. "You mean Jimmy?" she asked, her voice suddenly low and tremulous.

Momentarily taken aback, both cops hesitated, then Mike leaned in a little closer and tilted his head. "Yes," he said carefully, "yes, we do. What can you tell us about him, Annie?"

"Why?" she asked sharply, her eyes bouncing back and forth between them. "What's he done?"

A fleetingly brief, trepidatious look passed between the two detectives. "Why do think he's done something?" the older one asked.

She closed her eyes and they saw her swallow then bite her lips. When she opened her eyes, they were filled with fear. "Because he's not right… in the head… you know…?"

Steve slowly leaned closer. "What do you mean by that?"

"He has… ideas…" she began slowly, "he told us he believes in a spirit larger than ourselves… not God and not Satan but something between… something that could bring God and Satan together… he talked about starting a church that would be able to bring them together and make this a better world…" She inhaled deeply and looked down again, her lower lip beginning to tremble. "Someone needs to make this a better world…"

They waited patiently until she finally looked up into the younger cop's kind eyes and almost smiled. "You remind me of my brother… Brian…" Her pale blue eyes suddenly went dark and filled with tears. "He died in Vietnam… I couldn't believe in God after that… But what Jimmy said, well, it made sense to me… for awhile… until he started going crazy…"

"What do you mean crazy?" Steve asked softly.

Mike sat back slightly, allowing his partner to take the lead.

"He stopped talking about bringing people together… and he started talking about…" She stopped, biting her bottom lip and looking away. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her shins. "He started talking about killing people… people in the Church… people who didn't believe in him, people who didn't come with him when he left…"

"Was this after he started his own church?"

She nodded. "When we were up at the ranch."

Steve froze momentarily; he could sense Mike do the same. This was what they wanted to hear. "We heard about the ranch. What was it like up there?" He kept his tone even and encouraging.

Annie almost smiled. "It was wonderful at first. I mean, you know, compared to the Black Church it was beautiful to be out in the country. We started a vegetable garden and we cooked and prayed and sang and smoked dope and just…. you know, looked after each other… it was… it was wonderful…"

"Was Stan Kowalczyk with you on the ranch?"

This time her eyes lit up and she almost beamed. "Stan?! Of course! How do you guys know Stan?"

Steve glanced peripherally at his partner, who leaned slightly forward again.

"We made his acquaintance recently," Mike said smoothly then continued quickly, "Was he at the ranch the entire time you were there?"

"Oh yeah, Stan was like Jimmy's right hand man. They were always together. You see, Stan was this rich guy and he was the one that bought the ranch for all of us. He's a real sweet guy."

"And he was still at the ranch when you left?" Steve took over the questioning again.

She nodded. "Yeah. He tried to talk me out of going, but I'd made my mind up."

"What made you quit?"

She hesitated, looking away again. She frowned and blinked quickly several times. "Jimmy… he, ah, he got a little crazy a couple of months after we moved up to the ranch like I said… He started talking about how everyone was out to get him, just like they were with Charlie… and how he was going to let the world know exactly who he was, like Charlie…"

"Like Charlie…?" Steve prompted quietly.

Annie looked him straight in the eye. "Charlie Manson… He was like Jimmy's hero. He carried a copy of that book around - you know, the one with the green cover...? That book became his bible."

Almost imperceptibly, Steve inclined his head, his brows slightly knit. It was a movement his partner caught, making a mental note to ask him about it later; something was amiss.

"While, ah, while you were with him, did Jimmy do anything that you know of that was against the law?"

"Against the law?" she echoed, frowning. "Like, what? Robbing someone… or hurting someone?"

"Yeah."

She shook her head slowly. "No… no, not that I know of. I mean, he talked about it but he never really did anything… at least anything that I knew of… Sorry."

Steve smiled disarmingly. "Don't be sorry." He hesitated for a second, then asked gently. "Annie, did he ever do anything to you that you didn't want him to do?"

She frowned, looking confused, then she tilted her head and smiled slightly. "Do you mean, did he ever… force himself on me?"

He nodded, meeting her stare evenly.

Her look got far away and her smile softened. "The only time Jimmy… touched me… was when I wanted him to." She stared at him as if daring him to contradict her.

"Good," he said simply, continuing to meet her eyes.

Mike, who had been watching the exchange carefully, leaned forward. "Say, ah, Annie," he started conversationally, in an attempt to get her attention, "you spent a lot of time at the ranch, right?"

She turned slowly towards him and nodded.

"Do you know where it is? I mean, do you know how to find it?" Despite their best efforts, and with all the powers that their profession gave them with regards to any legal searches, they had so far been unable to locate the 'ranch' that Scott had ostensibly purchased using Kowalczyk's money. And they had used every permutation of the names 'James Scott' and 'Stanley Kowalczyk'. They even threw 'Charles Manson' into the mix but with still no success.

With a regretful smile, she shook her head. "Sorry. I rode in the back of a pick-up truck when we went up there the first time and I never stepped foot off the property until I quit the church. And then we all left in the middle of the night. I just know it's a ways upstate, in the Central Valley somewhere." She shrugged apologetically.

"That's okay," Mike smiled genially.

Suddenly her eyebrows shot up and she looked at Steve. "John! John would know," she offered excitedly.

"John Castle?" Mike asked hopefully.

She turned to him. "Yeah. Do you know John too?"

"We're going to be talking to John tomorrow."

"John's a nice guy too," she said warmly.

"Um," Steve prompted, leaning closer again, "you were saying that maybe John would know where the ranch is...?"

"Oh yeah," she almost chuckled, "John was in the front seat with Jimmy when we drove to the ranch that first time… and then he was the guy that would drive the truck back and forth into town to get supplies. He'd know where the ranch was, I guarantee it." She finished with a confident nod.

The partners exchanged looks, then Mike leaned forward and gently touched her forearm. "Annie, I would like to thank you very much. You've answered all our questions. We'll get out of your hair now."

As they began to stand, Steve looked around the small living room. "This is a nice place," he said pleasantly. "You live here alone?"

He saw Mike throw a curious look his way but ignored it as he focused on the young woman.

She smiled broadly. "No. I can't afford a place like this. I just rent a room from a friend. I, ah, I haven't been able to work since I…well, since I left the Church, so I do odd jobs, like grocery shopping and cleaning, and she lets me stay here for free."

Steve smiled. "Well, it's a beautiful location. You're lucky."

She stared at him, her smile fading slightly. "I know," she said softly, "I know…"

# # # # #

"What was that reaction you had in there?" Mike asked as they crossed the street to their car. "About the book?"

Steve paused, his hand on the driver's door handle, as Mike crossed around to the passenger side. " _Helter Skelter_ doesn't have a green cover. It has a black cover." He opened the door and got in behind the wheel.

"Then what book was she talking about?" Mike asked as he got into the car and closed the door.

"I don't know but I'll find out." He put the key in the ignition and started the engine. "So where are we going now?"

"Back to Bryant Street. Castle works the late shift and he won't be able to see us till tomorrow morning. I want to see if there's anything new that's been turned up on this elusive 'Jimmy Scott'."

They had also been unable to locate anything on The Reverend James Scott, and were beginning to think it wasn't the man's real name. According to the California Census, there were 235 James Scotts in Northern California, 97 of them in the Bay Area and its environs. Mike had two assistant inspectors, on loan from Robbery, sifting through the list and weeding out those that didn't fit the criteria. When that list yielded no obvious matches, Mike had had them expand their search, postulating that perhaps James was Scott's middle name.

Early that morning, they had received the updated list from the Census Bureau. There were 386 men in Northern California with the surname of Scott and the middle name James – 149 of them in the Bay Area.

It was a long shot, both detectives knew, but right now it was the only shot they had.

Steve chuckled as he pulled the LTD away from the curb. "I'm sure glad Robbery had a couple a guys they could spare. That is the one part of this job I can easily do without."

Mike laughed. "Tell me about it." He paused for a second. "Oh, I almost forgot. Can you swing by Fell on the way back to the shop?"

"Fell? What's on Fell?"

Mike had turned to him with a guilty, almost pleading, smile.

"Oh, right…" Steve growled quietly with a soft chuckle, the other shoe dropping, "there's a butcher shop on Fell, isn't there…?"

The older man sat back with a laugh and a grin. "Thanks, smiley."

Steve looked across the front seat and shook his head, continuing to chuckle. The hunt goes on…


	11. Chapter 11

The knock on the door of the small apartment building on Clayton was answered by a tall, thin young man about Steve's age with long dark hair and a thick mustache. "Yes?" he challenged them with a frown.

Smiling genially, the two detectives held out their I.D.'s. "This is Inspector Keller. I'm Lieutenant Stone, Mr. Castle. We spoke on the phone yesterday?"

There was a short, unmoving pause then the man's eyes widened slightly. "Yes… yes, of course, I'm sorry." He backed up and opened the door wider, inviting them in. "I, ah, I don't get many visitors, I'm sorry."

"That's all right," Mike said smoothly, pocketing his badge as he moved further into the small apartment, Steve on his heels.

Castle shut the door and turned to them, gesturing towards the blue naugahyde sofa against the far wall. "Please." He chuckled nervously, crossing around them quickly to pick up the discarded, disemboweled newspaper whose scattered pages were lying on a number of surfaces. "Sorry, I live alone…" he apologized feebly as he snatched up a large glass ashtray sitting on the arm of the sofa, but not before both cops spotted a couple of roaches. The distinctive smell of pot hung heavily in the air but neither visitor made any pretense of noticing it.

As the detectives took a seat on the now empty couch, he disappeared briefly to deposit the crumpled paper and ashtray in the kitchen then sat on an overstuffed chair nearby.

"We won't take up much of your time, Mr. Castle," Mike began genially. "We just want to ask you a few questions about your time with the Church of Satan, and with James Scott?" He had decided to cut right to the chase, so to speak, to see what kind of a reaction the mention of Scott's name would elicit. He wasn't disappointed.

Castle's nervous but open expression disappeared in a split second, replaced with a look of pure anger. "What about him?" he spat out.

Unruffled, Mike leaned forward as he took off the fedora and set it on the cushion beside him. "We know you left the Church of Satan to follow Scott out on his own, is that correct?"

"Yes." The intense brown eyes snapped from the older detective to the younger one and back.

"Mr. Castle, we talked to Annie Devereaux yesterday."

His eyes softened and he smiled slightly.

"She told us about the ranch and about your time there." Mike paused and almost chuckled. "It's, ah… it's obvious from your reaction to Scott's name that your time with him became - and ended, from what we assume – how shall I put it? Not to your liking?"

Castle snorted, but it was no longer with derision but rather disappointment. "He seemed to have good ideas, Jimmy did – at least at the beginning. Then he started getting all weird… and dark. He started carrying around this book and reading from it… it was a book about Charles Manson. That started to scare me… it started to scare everybody. That's when we all decided to get out… to get outa there before he turned us into his Tex Watsons and Patricia Krenwinkels."

"It's a good thing you did," Steve offered quietly and Castle met his eyes and nodded.

"So, ah, so what is it that you guys want to know?"

"Well," Mike began pleasantly, "we're investigating what could possibly be the murder of one of the former member's of Jimmy Scott's breakaway church –"

"Who?" Castle interrupted, his eyes wide and suddenly terrified.

"I'm afraid we can't divulge the victim's name as yet, next of kin and all that," Mike continued smoothly, "but we need to find out all we can about James Scott and the church he started… and especially where that church was located. All we know right now is that it was in the lower Central Valley, north of Vacaville. And we were wondering –"

"If I could tell you where it is?" Castle finished the detective's question smoothly and both cops froze. Before either could respond, he nodded once, sharply. "You bet I can. I'll help you do anything to nail that skeezy bastard. And if you're going to ask me if I think he's capable of killing anyone, the answer is yes. Without a doubt."

Mike leaned back and looked at his partner. He snorted slightly and dropped his head; when he looked up at Castle again, he wore a small grateful smile. "Mr. Castle, you have just made our day."

The long-haired young man smiled. "Call me John, Lieutenant. I've been waiting to tell someone about The Reverend Jimmy Scott for a long time but I didn't think anyone would believe me."

"We believe you," Steve offered with a short laugh. "Don't worry, we believe you." He slipped the notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open, then slid out the pen that was clipped onto the spiraled coil at the top.

"I can tell you exactly where the first ranch is, no problem, but I'm a little vague about where the other two are," Castle said almost eagerly, leaning forward.

Steve stopped in mid-motion. Mike had frozen as well for a split second; as he leaned slightly forward his voice was almost a whisper. "The other two?"

Castle's eyes snapped from one cop to the other, finally settling back on Mike.

"Yeah, you guys don't know about the other two. I mean, Jimmy was trying to be just like Charlie so –"

"Of course," Steve interrupted, almost as if he couldn't stop himself, and saw Mike's blue eyes, frowning suddenly, snap in his direction. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head in disbelief, he continued, "The Manson Family had three ranches at their disposal; the most famous being the Spahn ranch. But there were two others…" He could see Castle nodding in agreement. "Barker and, ah…?"

"Myers," Castle offered.

"Yeah, yeah, Myers." Steve looked at his partner. "It's in the book, I should've caught it," he said softly, a hint of apology in his voice.

Mike reached out and touched his knee reassuringly then turned his attention back to Castle. "You say you can give us directions to the first one, the main one, right?"

The young man nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Please, call me Mike."

Castle shook his head. "No, sir. I may look like a hippie, and I may have spent some time in the Church of Satan, but my parents brought me up right and I don't call anyone… ah, anyone my father's age, anything other than 'sir', Lieutenant."

Mike had begun to smile and when Castle finished, he shot an eyebrows raised, wide-eyed look at his partner.

"Thank you," he said to Castle with an easy, disarming chuckle. "John, I'll get you to give us those directions in a second but… when we talked to Annie yesterday, she told us that you know Stan Kowalczyk. Is that right?"

Despite the seriousness of their conversation, Castle's smile was spontaneous and genuine. "Stan? Yeah, I know him well. He's a great guy. Why?"

"He was with you at the Church of Satan and with Scott?" Steve asked, getting his head back in the game.

"Yeah, the whole time. He even stayed with Jimmy after the rest of us left." He frowned suddenly. "Why?"

"Oh, no particular reason," Mike said quickly with a smile, "we're just trying to get a picture of what was going on there at that time, that's all?"

Castle stared at the older detective; both cops could see him making the connections. "It's Stan, isn't it?" he asked finally, his voice quiet with a tone of sad inevitability. "It was Stan who was murdered, wasn't it?"

Mike glanced at Steve before closing his eyes briefly and nodding. Castle's eyes snapped shut and his face momentarily crumbled.

"And you think Jimmy did it, don't you?"

"It's beginning to look that way," Steve confirmed.

Castle sat perfectly still for a couple of seconds then leaned forward. They could sense a change in his demeanor as he met Mike's stare unflinchingly. "What else do you need from me, Lieutenant?"

Mike leaned forward, equally focused, now all business. "We want you to not only give us directions to that first ranch, but we need you to draw us a layout of the property with everything you can remember. Can you do that?"

"Anything you need."

"Good."

Steve glanced at his partner then asked Castle. "John, do you think Jimmy used Stan's money to buy the ranch?"

Castle's eyes darkened and he nodded. "Oh, yeah, without a doubt. Neither of them talked about it, but it was pretty obvious… well, to me, anyway… I knew the… the 'spell' that Jimmy had over Stan… I didn't understand it, but I could see it."

Steve nodded, balancing the notepad on his lap, ready to write down the directions to the ranch. Castle leaned towards him.

"When was the last time you saw Jimmy?" Mike asked.

"The day I left the ranch," Castle said with a soft chuckle, shaking his head, as if realizing how lucky he had been.

"Do you have any idea where Jimmy Scott is right now?"

"No… sorry, no I don't. When I cut ties with his… church, I didn't want anything more to do with him. But I can tell you one thing… if he's alone, and he probably is now that Stan…" He stopped and swallowed heavily. "If he's alone, he wouldn't stay up at the ranch… he has to have people around him. He'd come back to the city, back here, and try to find new… disciples… it's in his blood…"

# # # # #

"I want to find out where those other two 'ranches' are before we go up there," Mike said, doing his topcoat up to ward off the chill as they crossed the street towards their car.

Castle's directions to the main ranch were detailed and both detectives felt it would be fairly easy to find, even though they didn't have route numbers or road names. Castle told them he had paid no real attention to road signs when he was driving back and forth to the ranch; he just knew the route by heart. But he also remembered enough markers – farms, barns, fence posts, gnarly trees – to make navigation relatively foolproof.

"And how are we gonna do that?" Steve asked with a snort, turning up his raincoat collar against the cold drizzle before opening the driver's side door. "We wouldn't even have found the first one if it wasn't for Castle."

"I know," Mike growled as he got in the passenger side. "If there still isn't any word about that when we get back to the office, I have a hunch."

"You do? Care to share?" Steve asked with a chuckle as he turned the car on and shifted into Drive.

"Not yet, smiley, not yet," the older man chuckled as the car accelerated down the street.

# # # # #

The overhead fluorescents in the inner office were the only lights on in the Homicide office. Mike moved the empty pizza box to the top of the filing cabinet and brushed the crumbs off the top of the desk as Steve reentered with two steaming mugs of fresh coffee. He put them down then retreated to his own desk, returning with an armload of files.

Within seconds, they both had settled into their respective chairs; Steve picked up the top file and handed it across the table. Mike, who had put his reading glasses on, flipped it open, his eyes beginning to scan the information on the top page.

Steve rifled through the stack and pulled out a large file near the bottom. He leaned back in the guest chair, crossed his legs and opened the file, taking out a thick stack of stapled papers. "Okay shoot."

"That's the list of land deeds?" Mike asked, glancing up.

"Umh-humh," Steve nodded.

"Okay, look for the last name of Carlyle…"

Steve frowned slightly. "Carlyle…?"

"Yeah, Carlyle."

With a slight shrug, the younger man's eyes, aided by a finger, slid down the list rapidly. Mike waited patiently. Steve flipped the page over and started again from the top. About two thirds of the way down, his finger stopped. "Here – got one. A 'J. Carlyle'." He looked up.

Mike smiled slightly, gesturing with his chin. "Keep going."

Frowning, Steve turned his attention back to the list. Two pages later his finger stopped again. "Another one…" He glanced up and Mike nodded encouragingly. He kept going. On the next page he stopped again. "Here's a third one." He looked back up.

Mike leaned forward, forearms on the desk. "That's it," he said quietly, "we've got them all."

Frowning with his own slight smile, Steve tilted his head. "How in the hell…?"

Mike pointed down at the file on the desk in front of him. "Stan's dad married an Irish girl…"

Steve tilted his head with a smirk. "Carlyle…"

"Umh-humh."

"And her first name begins with a J?"

"Not hers," Mike shook his head with a smile, "his father's – Jerzy."

Steve's smirk turned into an impressed grin. "You never cease to amaze me…"


	12. Chapter 12

Steve looked up as the grey-haired uniformed sergeant approached his desk, a large and bulky manila envelope in one hand. Sekulovich held it out towards the Homicide inspector, who took it with a frown. "Someone left this at the front desk for you just now."

Turning the envelope so he could read his name in black marker on the front, Steve nodded. "Thanks, Art," he mumbled as the sergeant turned away with a nod and returned to his desk. Taking a metal letter opener out of his top drawer, he slit the top of the envelope and slid a thick green-and-black-covered paperback book out.

With a grin, he got up from the desk and crossed to the closed office door. Mike was on the phone so he waited patiently until he saw his partner hang up then opened the door and went in. The older man looked up.

"That was Chief Powell. They went through Stan's apartment with a fine toothed comb yesterday and didn't find any sign of that money, so that's still a mystery we're going to have to solve." He sat back in the chair, pulled out the lower drawer and put his right foot on it. "Great," he chuckled dryly, running a hand over his tired eyes, "one more thing to add to the list."

"Well, on the plus side," Steve chuckled, dropping into the guest chair, "someone just delivered a copy of that 'green covered paperback' Annie Devereaux talked about…" He held it up then passed it across the desk to his partner.

"You found it," Mike sounded pleased as he picked up his glasses from the desk, putting them on and taking the book.

"I have a friend that works in a second-hand bookstore. She tracked it down for me."

" _She_ did, did she?" Mike said with a smirk, looking up briefly as the studied the book's cover. "'The Family'…" he read, then flipped through it quickly. "Looks like a heavy read." He handed it back. "You can start it tonight."

Nodding and bobbing his eyebrows, Steve snorted. "Lucky me."

"And if you don't get it finished, I'll drive the first leg tomorrow and you can finish it in the car… how does that sound?" Mike asked with a grin, rewarded with a rolling pair of green eyes and a heavy, comical sigh. "So, anything else?"

"Well, you'll also be happy to know I just got off the phone with the people from Land Records and they're going to send us the property maps for the areas we need. We should have them by this afternoon."

Mike sat back slightly. "Wow, that's fast. Good work. We might be able to head up there tomorrow then."

Steve shook his head, still somewhat in awe. "I'm still trying to figure out whose idea it was to use Stan's parents name on the land deeds, Stan's or Jimmy's? I'm leaning towards Jimmy – he's got the more devious mind, I think. You?"

"Oh yeah, without a doubt. I bet Scott's got someone who knows how to fudge the I.D.'s needed to make it look like Jerzy Carlyle was a real person, alive and well. Whatever they did, it worked, didn't it? And now we get to go up there and find out where all this little drama played out… and maybe where Stan met his end…" Mike finished soberly.

"Yeah, but I'd still like to find out where Scott is before we do that." Steve sounded troubled.

"Ah, about that," Mike said, taking his foot off the drawer and sitting forward, "Bill and Lee finished up with that restaurant shooting and they're free. So I've had them contacting the other people on the list we got from Stanton to see if any of them have seen Scott in town lately."

"Any luck?"

Mike shrugged. "I don't know, I haven't seen either of them yet today. You?"

"Not yet."

There was a soft knock on the door and they looked up to see one of the young inspectors from Robbery that had been temporarily assigned to Homicide. He had a file folder in one hand.

"What can we do for you, David?"

The inspector grinned. "I think we found him, sir." He took a step deeper into the room.

Frowning, Mike glanced at Steve, momentarily at a loss. Then he smiled warily. "Are you telling me you think you found James Scott?"

"Yes, sir… and you were right, that's not his full name. It's actually Eugene James Scott." He held the folder out towards the older man, who took it eagerly, dropping it on the desk and flipping it open. Quickly scanning the top page, Mike looked up at Steve and smiled enthusiastically, then looked back up at the young assistant inspector.

"We, ah, we found it yesterday afternoon, sir, but you and Inspector Keller were still out so we took it upon ourselves to dig a little deeper. We got in touch with the state police, the departments in Davis and Vacaville, and our own files, and everything the government has…" He pointed at the file. "That's everything we've got so far."

Mike had flipped through the papers in the file and looked at the young man with appreciation and approval. "You and Garth have done an amazing job from the looks of it, Charlie. We can't thank you enough… and don't worry, I'll make sure your boss and the powers that be know what you two did."

"Thank you, sir," Charlie beamed as he took a step backwards out of the office door, turned and headed across the bullpen.

Mike shared a smile and chuckle with his partner then focused on the file in his hands. He scanned the first page quickly. "Well, let's see… ah, Eugene James Scott was born on August 21st, 1939 to Ronald John Scott and Mary Ellen Talbot in Paradise, California." He frowned and looked at the other man. "Paradise…? You ever heard of it."

Steve, making a note on the pad in front of him, pursed his lips and shook his head without looking up. "I'll check it out. Sounds small, doesn't it?"

Mike chuckled. "Sure does." He looked back down at the file. "Seems he was… _is_ an only child. He went to Paradise Elementary School and Paradise High School, but dropped out, it seems, in Grade 11. There's nothing here that says he went to college or university anywhere…

"Let's see. His father was a sergeant in the army during World War Two. He was wounded in The Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes…" Mike's voice suddenly became thin and he dropped his head.

Steve looked up. His partner had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply. Steve waited; he knew Mike was thinking of his brother, who had lost his life in the Ardennes in 1945.

Several seconds later, Mike lightly cleared his throat, blinked several times, then started to read again. Steve looked back down at the notepad, pen poised. "His, ah, his father was shipped home in the summer of '45, just before his son's sixth birthday. Lucky boy." He looked up at Steve and smiled, but the younger man could see the tears still in his eyes.

"Let's see, ah," Mike continued, his voice getting stronger, "little _Eugene's_ mother –"

Steve laughed at the comic emphasis on 'The Reverend's' real first name, and Mike chuckled.

"- had gone to work in the local grocery store while Dad was overseas and then she returned to being a housewife when he got back. Eugene, it seems, left Paradise when he was 18 and moved to the big city of Chico …" He looked up at his partner and smiled. "Well, Paradise had only fifteen thousand people and Chico has fifty, so to an 18-year-old kid, that would be a big move, wouldn't it?"

Steve shrugged. "It was for me. I went from Modesto to Berkeley to here – now that's culture shock."

"I bet it was," Mike chuckled, returning to the file. "Let's see. His father died in 1962 of cancer, it says here on the death certificate, and his mother passed away in '69."

"Has he got a record?"

"Let's see," Mike mumbled, flipping a few pages, looking for police reports.

There was a commotion in the bullpen and they both looked up to see Inspectors Bill Tanner and Lee Lessing coming towards the inner office, shouting greetings to their colleagues as they passed. Out of formality, Tanner knocked on the open door even though both partners were already looking at him.

"Good morning," Mike greeted his officers with a big smile. "I hope you come bearing good news."

Nodding his salutations, Lessing joined his partner as they moved into the small office, both electing to stand.

"Well," Tanner began, "we called all the numbers on that list, and got ahold of about eighteen people. Only thirteen of those were willing to stay on the line to talk to us," he chuckled, and Lessing nodded in affirmation, "and of those thirteen, four reported seeing Scott, or someone they thought was Scott, in The City in the past two weeks."

"That would be since the murder, right?" Mike confirmed.

"Yeah, but we didn't mention the murder, of course. We just told them that the SFPD wanted to talk to him about stolen property," Lessing told them. "Funnily enough, nobody seemed surprised by that accusation, so maybe it isn't very far-fetched."

Mike looked at his partner with a facial shrug. "Maybe that's something we should look into – fencing stolen property. Maybe we can put those Robbery inspectors to good use again."

Steve nodded, almost feeling sorry for the two inspectors already.

"So what did they say about Scott?" Mike asked, refocusing.

"Well," Tanner took over, "one that I spoke to said she thought she saw him hanging around down the street from the Black Church. She was pretty sure it was him. This was a week ago Monday she said."

"One I spoke to, a guy, said he thought he saw him in a diner on Divisadero, and another guy said he saw him at the Wharf. Now that one sounded plausible to me because I heard that the Church recruited kids down there… you know, kids coming into The City just off the bus…" Lessing reported.

"That makes sense," Steve put in. "If Scott is trying to build his church up again, that would be a place to start."

"Yeah, it sure does," Mike agreed. He looked up at Tanner and Lessing. "You said there were four."

"Yeah," Tanner nodded, "and this one was really interesting. A woman I talked to who said she knew Scott really well says she thinks she saw him getting on a plane at SFO about four days ago. She was there to pick somebody up. Now she said she couldn't be a hundred percent but she was pretty sure it was him. But she didn't catch what flight it was or anything… so, for what it's worth…"

Mike looked at Steve and shrugged again. "If Scott has all that cash on him, maybe getting out of town is a good idea. We should check with all the airlines –"

"Already doing that," Lessing cut him off, smiling. "Bill and I started on that last night. We couldn't find his name on any of the manifests so far; there are still some airlines that have yet to respond. But if he flew domestic, he could be using another name…"

"Jerzy Carlyle…?" Mike mused, looking at his partner with raised eyebrows. Steve nodded.

"What?" Tanner frowned, both inspectors confused.

"Check out the domestic manifests again, this time for the name Jerzy Carlyle," their boss ordered with a smile. Steve had written the name down, ripped the page from his notebook and handed it Lessing. "I'll explain later," Mike said with a chuckle, watching the frowns deepen.

"If he flew international, he'd need a passport," Steve mused. "I'll get on the horn after we finish here and find out if he has one."

"We can do that," Lessing said quickly, "you guys finish what you're doing here. Until we get another case, Bill and I have some time to 'donate'," he finished with a broad smile.

"Then I'll take you up on that," Mike agreed with a laugh. Including Steve in his nod, he continued, "We still have some ground to cover before we head up north tomorrow and try to find these… ranches. Although I have a feeling the word 'ranch' is a little too… grandiose for what we're going to find."

"Well, good luck, and hopefully when you get back we'll know where Scott has disappeared to," Tanner said as he and Lessing took their leave, crossing to their desks in the bullpen.

Mike turned to his partner, hefting the file in his hand. "Listen, ah, I can finish going through this. Why you don't you call it a night and go home and start working on that?" He gestured towards the paperback in Steve's hand with his chin. "I want to get an early start and I want to call Chief Powell and tell him what we're doing… and I still have a couple of other phone calls to make." He closed the file and opened the top drawer, taking out a pad and tossing it onto the desk.

Nodding, Steve started to get to his feet, looking at the pad and the list he could see on it. "Still looking for a turkey, hunh?"

Mike, who was reaching for the receiver of his black phone, froze mid-motion and stared at him. "I've exhausted all the butchers in The City…" he sighed resignedly, "so I'm starting to work on Oakland."

Muffling a chuckle, Steve picked up the notebook and started out of the room. "If you're not successful, we could always try upstate tomorrow?" he called over his shoulder.

His index finger in the dial, Mike brightened up. "That's a great idea!"


	13. Chapter 13

Mike glanced across the front seat, another smile creasing his face. Frowning slightly, Steve was deeply engrossed in the green-and-black covered, dog-eared paperback. Mike shook his head, chuckling. "It's a good thing you can read in the car. A lot of people can't, you know? I can too, but my wife," he shook his head with a facial shrug. "It made her nauseous. Luckily Jeannie takes after me – allows her to study on the bus back and forth from Arizona."

Steve had looked up and smiled. He took his left hand off the book and rubbed his eyes. They had been driving with the dome light on so he could read; the sun had come up but the cloud cover was so thick it almost felt like it was still night.

They had left The City in the pre-dawn hours, knowing it was going to be a long day, with the intention of stopping at the Police Department in Vacaville as they passed through town to bring Chief Powell up to speed. It was damp and chilly when Mike had picked him up, both of them hoping the weather would improve the further northeast they went. But it wasn't improving; if anything, it looked like it was getting worse.

"So," Mike continued, "you finding anything useful in that book?"

Steve stretched, craning his neck to get the kinks out. "Yeah, I think so…" He looked out the front window then glanced at the dashboard clock. 8:47. "Any chance we could stop somewhere for coffee and a bagel or something?"

"You read my mind," Mike chuckled. "I'm going to pull off at the next exit. We're just north of Fairfield and I think there's that all-night diner on the by-pass up here, remember?"

Steve nodded; they had stopped for coffees there on the their first trip to Fairfield a few weeks ago.

Refueled with exceptionally good coffee and fresh muffins, they were back on the road within a half hour, Mike still behind the wheel.

"So what can you tell me about Charles Manson that you think might be applicable to this situation?"

Steve, who had brought the cardboard cup of coffee back to the car with him, took a sip. "Well, the big thing is, despite what everyone thinks, Manson never killed anyone. He had his minions do it. He was convicted of first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit first-degree murder for the Tate-LaBianca killings, but he didn't actually do any of them himself.

"And nobody seems to know why… he was a coward maybe…? Who knows? Anyway, if Scott did kill Stan, then he's taken a huge step away from emulating Manson, 'cause I'm sure Scott knows that Manson didn't actually do any of the murders."

Mike was frowning. "Humh," he grunted, "that is interesting, isn't it?"

"Yeah… And that's not the only thing. There's a parallel with Stan too, a different kind of parallel. A year before the Tate-LaBianca killings, the family befriended this musician named Gary Hinman. For some reason, Manson thought Hinman was independently wealthy and he sent some of his followers to convince Hinman to join the family – to get his hands on the money, no doubt. When Hinman refused, they killed him."

"Hmmm," Mike growled again, "so you think Stan giving his money to Scott was the only thing keeping him alive?"

Steve shrugged. "It's possible, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it sure is."

# # # # #

About a half hour later, they were updating Chief Powell about what they had uncovered, and told him of that day's goals – to visit all three of Scott's 'ranches', with the promise that if one of them held any sign that it was where Stan Kowalczyk had been murdered, their first call would be back to Powell, who would then decide if he wanted to involved the State Police. Nobody wanted to lose jurisdiction to the State Police.

Powell had wanted to send a squad car to accompany them, but there had been a double homicide in Vacaville the night before – a drunken bar patron had drawn a gun on a couple of Mexican migrant workers and when the dust cleared, both the drunk and one of the migrants were dead. All his units were going to be tied up for the day at least.

The detectives informed him about the Scott sightings in San Francisco, and Powell told them that Scott had not been spotted anywhere in the area, a response to the APB that Steve had sent out a few days before.

Then, armed with a highlighted and detailed map of the area where the first ranch was located, the San Francisco detectives returned to their car in the cold drizzle and hit the road again.

# # # # #

"Does that look like a gnarly tree to you?"

"I guess it depends on what your definition of gnarly is."

A heavy sigh. "Okay, college boy, it's gonna be like that, is it?"

Steve, now behind the wheel, laughed and after a couple of seconds Mike joined in.

"Okay, so if this is Castle's gnarly tree, take a left at the next road."

A slightly overgrown lane appeared on their left and Steve made the turn.

Mike had the sketch that Castle had drawn of the layout of the ranch on his lap. "It should be about a hundred yards to the clearing," he said, looking through the windshield overtop of his glasses. "The house will be on the left, a barn and a large two-door garage kinda thing on the right."

The large sedan bounced over the pot-holed dirt road, tossing them around slightly. They came slowly around a large, beautiful weeping willow into an open area with the three buildings Mike had just mentioned. Steve braked suddenly, surprised.

"Wow, it's a lot closer to the road than I expected."

"Yeah," Mike said quietly as he stared at the rundown house through the misty drizzle on the windshield.

Steve turned on the wipers and the glass cleared momentarily.

"Looks pretty deserted, doesn't it?" Mike's eyes swept the clearing, noting the overgrown grass everywhere. "Doesn't look like there's been a vehicle in here recently, does it?"

"Nope." Steve looked across the front seat and raised his eyebrows. "Well, we're here. Shall we check it out?"

"Why not? We're here, aren't we?" Mike countered with a chuckle as he reached for the door handle, but not before he unsnapped the holster on his right hip.

They both got out quietly, pushing their doors to but not closing them. Mike nodded towards the house and they both started across the overgrown yard. Steve reached across his body and unsnapped his own holster. Their eyes raked the house and the outbuildings constantly as they silently made their way forward, every sense on high alert.

Mike stepped up onto the rundown front porch of the single storey building, its once white screen door hanging on an angle. A brown wooden front door, its paint chipped and peeling, was closed; they could see a brass deadbolt. Steve tried the knob; it was locked. He looked at his partner.

Mike, raising his eyebrows, nodded at the door. Steve frowned and his shoulders slumped. Exhaling loudly, he took a step back, raised his right leg and slammed his foot into the door near the lock. It held. Rattled, the younger man tried again. The door shook but still held.

Without a word, Mike put a hand on his arm and pushed him back, taking his place. Holding a deep breath, Mike slammed his own right foot into the door at the same spot. There was the loud crack of splintering wood and the door gave way, flinging open with a shudder. With a smug glance over his shoulder, his hand on the butt of his revolver, Mike stepped over the threshold.

"I loosened it for you," Steve whispered with a snort as he followed his partner into the dark house.

Mike nodded with a smirk as he tried the light switch on the wall beside the entrance; neither of them was expecting power so were not surprised when the toggle clicked ineffectively. Heavy curtains over the windows added to the gloom; they could barely see anything and they waited for their eyes to adjust.

"I don't think there's been anybody here for awhile," Steve said softly and Mike turned to him with a grin and a chuckle.

"I don't think we have to whisper anymore," he said in a normal voice. "I think anyone within a half mile heard that door cave in."

Steve shrugged. "You have a point."

Mike crossed to the nearest window and pulled open the curtain, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The place was a mess, but there was nothing obvious that told them that anything untoward had happened here.

By mutual unspoken consent they split up and investigated the remaining rooms, returning eventually to the main area shrugging and shaking their heads. Less than a half hour later, having checked out the barn and the garage, they were back in the car.

"One down, two to go," Mike said as he leaned forward and put the heater on. "Remind me to put my coat on for the next one, will ya? That's cold out there."

The overcast sky they were hoping to leave behind had followed them, it seemed. And it was getting denser and lower. Both of them had a feeling they knew what it was, but both were reluctant to give it voice unless it became a reality instead of just a concern.

Steve shifted into Reverse and backed the LTD into a tight circle. "Where to now?" he asked as he straightened the wheel and they started back up the bumpy lane.

"Good question," Mike mumbled, putting his glasses back on and picking up the map they had been given by the people at Land Records. All three properties had been circled but the exact directions to the other two were vague, at best. There didn't seem to be any roads on this particular map. He sighed. "Okay, um, well, uh, from the looks of this, it's to the west of here so turn right back at the road."

Steve chuckled and shook his head. "This is going to be fun," he said dryly but there was a definite hint of laughter in his voice.

It took a little more than an hour, and a number of u-turns before they found the overgrown road that they assumed was their destination. The drizzle had continued and Steve could swear the clouds were getting lower and darker. He was well aware of what the weather could deliver in the lower Central Valley and he was starting to get apprehensive.

The ruts in the so-called road were even deeper than before and the car bounced roughly. Mike, in his usual style, had braced himself with his right hand on the ceiling and his foot on the dash.

The road was longer here than at the main 'ranch' and when they finally reached the end, there was only one building – a large, two-storey farmhouse painted black, reminiscent of the Black Church in San Francisco, that had definitely seen better days.

Mike looked across the front seat, slowly taking his foot off the dash and his hand off the ceiling. "Yikes," he said softly, "that looks familiar, doesn't it?"

Nodding as he continued to stare at the building in front of them, Steve turned off the engine. He glanced across the front seat. Mike had reached into the back, grabbing both their coats and dragging them into the front, handing the beige raincoat to the younger man as they opened the doors and slowly climbed out.

Mike suppressed a shudder as he shrugged into the black topcoat, not sure if it was from the cold or the creepy feeling emanating from the house that loomed in front of them. He briefly touched the grip of the .38 on his right hip as he started towards the short set of steps up to the wide porch and black door.

Mounting the stairs behind his partner, Steve looked over his shoulder at the thick stand of tall trees that surrounded the bleak setting. Inhaling deeply, he slipped the revolver out of its holster, dropping his hand to his side.

Mike put his hand on the doorknob and turned; the latch clicked and the door opened. He froze and glanced back at Steve, then slowly pushed the door inward slightly. The hinges creaked.

It was the smell that hit them first, an overwhelming sickly sweet metallic odor. Mike took a half step backwards, pulling his .38 as he slowly pushed the door open a little further. He stepped carefully and quietly over the threshold, his eyes snapping around the dark room, Steve right behind, his own revolver now raised and ready.

The room was in complete darkness, the only light the weak spill from the door they had just entered. Thin shafts of overcast sunlight were visible between the wooden slats that covered the two large front windows. Like the outside, the entire room seemed to be painted black; there was no furniture save for a couple of wooden chairs near a far corner.

Mike nodded to his left. Steve, pushing the door open all the way to allow in as much light as possible, headed in that direction, the hairs on the back of his neck standing at full attention. Mike slowly and carefully made his way around the room to the right.

As their eyes adjusted to the dark, they could both see the large dark stain on the wooden floor in the middle of the room. And there was no doubt in either man's mind that this was where Stan Kowalczyk had lost his life.


	14. Chapter 14

They exchanged a look across the room, both faces registering the disturbing realization of what they were standing over. Mike briefly closed his eyes and sighed, then nodded at the stairs on his left that led to the second floor.

With a confirming nod, Steve started towards them as the older man turned and disappeared through the door behind him, presumably the kitchen.

There were two small bedrooms and a bathroom on the upper floor, all of them empty. Steve turned on the tap in the bathroom; there was no running water. He returned to the first floor to find his partner once more standing over the gruesome scene in the main room.

"Nothing," Steve shook his head, holstering his .38 as Mike's eyes turned towards him.

"Same in there," Mike gestured with his head over his shoulder as he tossed the right side of his topcoat back and put his own gun away. He stared at the floor again and sighed heavily. "Well, I guess we found what we were looking for…"

"Yeah. So, ah, so what do you want to do?"

Mike looked at him and raised his eyebrows. "Well, we did tell Powell we'd let them know if we found anything, and I still think we should do that. But I don't want anybody in here until Forensics go over this entire place from top to bottom."

"Sounds good. So, shall we shut the place up and radio Powell and let him know what we found?"

"Yeah, I guess," Mike agreed as he started towards the door. "But I don't want to have to make this trip up here again. I want to find that third place… today. God knows what we'll find there… maybe the money."

Steve had followed his partner to the entrance and they stepped out onto the porch, firmly closing the door behind them. They both stood for a moment looking at the sky; it was definitely getting darker and colder.

"You know what that is, right?" Steve asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his raincoat as he nodded towards the sky.

"I know, I know," Mike growled as he stepped off the porch towards the car. "But I still want to find that third property. I got a feeling about it…"

Steve jogged back to the sedan and slipped behind the wheel, turning the engine over and setting the heater on full as Mike got in. The older man reached for the mic and slipped it off the hook. "He said Channel 4, right?" he asked, flipping the dial as Steve nodded. "Inspectors 8-1 to VPD Dispatch, come in please," he barked into the mic.

There was no response. He repeated the call, looking at the younger man with raised eyebrows. There was still no response. He snapped the dial on the radio back to Channel 2 and tried again. Still nothing.

"We too far out of range, do you think?"

Steve shrugged, frowning. "Either that or this cloud cover is interfering."

"Son-of-a-bitch," Mike growled, looking at the radio as if it could tell him. With a frustrated exhale, he slammed the mic back on the hook and sat back. "Well, I still want to check out that third place, so let's try to find it and then head back to Vacaville and tell Powell what we found." He picked up the property map.

Steve was looking at the sky through the windshield. "This is starting to get bad, Mike. You ever been in a tule fog?"

"Tool fog? Like a hammer?"

The younger man chuckled. "Tee-you-ell-eee. It's a specific kind of Central Valley fog. If you think what we get in The City is thick, you ain't never seen a tule fog. Everything comes to a standstill in a tule fog, and it can get really cold."

"Great. How long do they usually last?"

"Several hours at least, sometimes all night." Steve was studying the thick mist that was already tickling the tops of the tallest trees.

Mike followed his gaze. "How long do you think we have?"

The younger man tilted his head and shrugged. "Well, I haven't lived in the Valley in a long time, but I think we still have a couple of hours till we really have to worry. But…" he raised a forefinger, "I could be wrong."

Mike glanced at him and smiled. "Let's just hope you aren't." He looked at the property map again. "Okay, ah, let's get out of here and back on the road… and I think we need to turn right."

Steve shifted into Reverse and twisted in the seat, his right hand on the back of Mike's headrest as he stared through the rear window and guided the LTD backwards down the narrow lane.

# # # # #

The fog was getting denser as they slowly approached an overgrown track that seemed to be the entrance to the third property and turned in. They had driven past it twice before they even noticed it. The headlights did little to cut through the thickening mist as Steve struggled to keep the large sedan between the bushes that encroached on either side.

The path was surprisingly straight, though it was rough and slow going. Eventually they started to make out a large single-storey farmhouse up ahead. It looked even more dilapidated than the first two.

Mike exhaled loudly. "I guess this is it," he said under his breath as Steve began to bring the LTD to a stop. Suddenly the sedan lurched forward and down, as if the front wheels had dropped into a small ditch; both men pitched forward slightly, Mike bracing himself against the dash and Steve tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

"I'll just back up a little," Steve said with a soft chuckle as he shifted into Reverse and started to turn in the seat.

Without warning, the windshield exploded. Steve heard Mike cry out in pain and surprise as glass shards filled the inside of the car, then his right arm erupted in agony as he was thrown hard against the seat. Instinctively knowing they were under fire, he slammed his foot down on the gas and the sedan shot backwards.

Almost blinded by the pain that was pulsing through his right arm, now lying limply at his side, he struggled to keep the car straight and between the bushes. From the corner of his eye he could see Mike's right hand snaking up towards the roof, and he allowed himself the briefest flicker of relief – his partner was still alive and conscious.

The lane seemed endless as the car crashed through the tall grass. Gritting his teeth against the pain, his left hand wobbled on the steering wheel and the tail end of the car spun wildly. A large tree branch slammed into the right rear side window and it shattered before he could jam on the brakes and get the car back under control.

"Headlights!" he heard Mike gasp, voice laced with pain.

Knowing that his partner meant they were being pursued, Steve slammed his foot down on the accelerator once more and the car shot backwards again. He heard Mike's sudden sharp inhale but didn't dare take his eyes from the rear window.

Mike was trying to brace himself against the ceiling and the dash. He had no feeling in his left arm, his shoulder burning with a pain so intense he could barely move. He knew he had been hit at least once and possibly twice. Every bounce of the car drove a spear of agony through his shoulder and he was having trouble catching his breath.

The rear end of the car finally broke through the bushes onto the road and, slamming on the brakes again, Steve spun the wheel with his left arm and the LTD slewed into a tight turn. It rocked to a stop, the headlight beams piercing the fog and illuminating the wide asphalt county road.

With a moan, trying to drag air deeper into his lungs, Steve reached through the steering wheel with his left hand and tried awkwardly to pull the column shifter into Drive. Gasping from the pain the effort was costing him, his hand slipped and he tried again. He could sense Mike turn slowly towards him and suddenly the older man's right hand was over his, pulling the shifter forward and down into Drive.

As Steve got his left hand on the wheel again, Mike fell back against the seat, his head lolling back and his right hand pressed against his left shoulder. He yelped in pain as the car jumped forward.

Breathing heavily through his mouth, trying to ignore the agony radiating the length of his right arm, Steve blinked rapidly, trying to concentrate on the road that was disappearing ever faster in the thickening fog. The windshield, peppered with six two-inch holes bunched at the centre, was a spider web of cracks that ran all the way to the sides. Cold air was streaming through the holes, quickly overwhelming the warmth inside.

He could feel the rapidly cooling blood on his right hand, still lying uselessly on the seat beside him. His heart was pounding and his chest heaving with both pain and fear. He glanced in the rear view mirror; two of the bullets had punched holes in the glass of the rear window but it hadn't cracked.

"We gotta get off this road," Mike's shaky voice floated towards him and he nodded automatically.

The older man, holding his breath and clenching his teeth, pushed himself away from the seat and closer to the dashboard, trying to see through the fog and the cracks in the glass. Breathing in short gasps, his eyes scanned both sides of the road, looking for any sign of a trail or lane they could turn down.

At this moment, flight and cover were their only options.

Steve glanced in the rearview mirror again. As far as he could tell, they were still alone, but he couldn't be sure. Suddenly he felt unsure about everything.

"There!" he heard Mike gasp and his foot hit the brakes, the car sliding slightly even though they hadn't been going very fast. Both of them winced. Mike, who had braced himself against the dash, reached across his body towards the steering column to slide the shifter up into Reverse. Steve backed the car several feet then made the turn onto the narrow, overgrown path after Mike had shifted back into Drive.

Overhanging branches slapped the windshield as the large sedan bounced heavily down the winding lane, Steve pushing the car as fast as he dared under the circumstances. The fog was now so thick the high beams were more hindrance than help and Steve quickly took his left hand off the steering wheel to turn the headlights off.

Mike had braced himself again but couldn't smother the moans of pain that tore from his lips every time the car bucked and swayed.

Steve steered the car around a bend then slammed to a stop; the short road had come to an abrupt end at a dense copse of cottonwood trees. Leaving the car in Drive he turned the engine off. As the heavy silence settled, wispy tendrils of the cold, thick fog drifted through the holes in the windshield and the shattered side window.

The two occupants of the badly damaged police car were fighting their pain, gasping for breath, the brown leather seat between them slick with their blood. Both of them could hear the rapid hiss and see the thin column of steam escaping through the grille from the punctured radiator.

"We're in trouble, buddy boy," Mike gasped finally, trying to control the tremor in his voice, "big trouble…"


	15. Chapter 15

For the first time since the horror began, the two shell-shocked detectives could take stock of their injuries and their situation. Steve closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, almost too afraid to look at his right arm; he knew it was going to be bad.

He turned his head slowly; the right shoulder of his raincoat looked fine. He knew he had to get the raincoat off to see the damage, a proposition he was not relishing. His eyes travelled across the front seat to his partner. The fedora still in place, Mike was motionless, his head back against the seat, eyes closed and mouth open; the left shoulder of the black topcoat was wet and in the dull light coming through the shattered windshield he thought he could see two holes in the dark fabric. Alarmed, Steve stared, allowing himself a small sigh of relief when he finally saw the gentle rise and fall of the older man's chest.

With a groan, Steve sat up a little straighter, reaching across with his left hand to grab the cuff of his right sleeve in an attempt to begin pulling his raincoat off. Mike opened his eyes and looked over then, holding his breath and gritting his teeth, sat up slowly and reached across his own body with his good right arm and started to help.

"No," Steve gasped through a held breath, "I can do this."

"Like hell you can," Mike snapped back worriedly as he grabbed the bottom of the sleeve and gently began to pull.

Steve inhaled sharply and froze. "Just a sec, just a sec…" he hissed and Mike stopped. Steve leaned to his left and dropped his hand to the side of the seat. Seconds later his side of the front seat began to move back several inches, giving him more room behind the wheel.

With an approving nod, Mike started again to carefully pull on the cuff of the raincoat as Steve leaned to the left and gingerly slid his injured arm free. The entire sleeve of the brown faux suede jacket beneath was soaked with blood.

Mike looked up into his partner's eyes, worried and scared but trying very hard not to show it. "We gotta get that jacket off too," he said softly and the younger man nodded reluctantly.

Mike leaned back and closed his eyes again, trying to get his own discomfort under control. His right hand found its way back to his left shoulder and his face creased in agony.

Steve watched him closely, shaking with fear and worry on top of the pain and shock. "How bad?" he asked quietly.

Still grimacing, Mike shook his head slightly. "I don't know… but I'm not tasting blood, so I don't think it hit my lung…" He snorted mirthlessly then opened his eyes slowly and looked at his young partner. "Let's get that jacket off," he said with a tiny smile, holding his breath again as he sat forward and turned in the seat once more.

Steve nodded, closing his eyes in anticipation of the hurt the simple act was going to inflict. Incredibly slowly, and with infinite tenderness, Mike took hold of the jacket cuff and began to ease it off Steve's injured arm as the younger man again leaned to his left, allowing his arm to slide out of the now heavy blood-wet sleeve.

Almost paralyzed with pain, Steve laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, his chest heaving. Mike watched, unblinking, as the younger man fought to regain some measure of control. Eventually Steve opened his eyes again. "I think… it's broken… a bullet… went through it," he said quietly in short, quick bursts.

Fighting his own pain, Mike nodded. "It went through your bicep too," he gestured at Steve's upper arm with his chin.

The younger man nodded, closing his eyes briefly. "Yeah… but I don't think… it hit the bone… or the artery…"

Mike nodded back, not quite convinced. Taking a deep breath, he reached up with his good right hand and started to undo his tie.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked softly, frowning.

Mike's eyes flicked to his partner's wide two-tone brown tie then back to his eyes. "Take your tie off if you can…"

Still staring at the older man, Steve's left hand went to the already loosened tie and pulled the knot away from his throat.

Trying not to grimace, his own tie now in his right hand, Mike turned so he was almost perpendicular to the driver's seat. Trying to hide his shaking hand, he tucked one end of the tie under Steve's armpit against the seat then reached around and grabbed the other end, pulling it around the younger man's arm just below the shoulder. "Hold that," he ordered and Steve grabbed the half of the tie in front.

With his right hand, Mike wrapped his end of the tie around the other and tightened it into a jerry-rigged slipknot. He glanced down at the seat between then, spotting the now blood-covered pen that he'd been using. Though his fingers lost their grip a few times, he managed to insert the pen through the knot in the tie. He grabbed one end of the pen and gave it a quarter turn; the tie tightened around Steve's arm in a crude approximation of a tourniquet that could apply pressure when needed. "It's not pretty but it should work," he gasped as he fell back against the seat, trying not to moan as his pressed his good hand against his shoulder again, breathing rapidly through his open mouth.

Steve watched worriedly. "What can I do –?'

Mike shook his head. "Nothing…" He almost chuckled. "The bleeding's stopped… I just have to wait for the pain to become… bearable… that's all…"

"Right…" Steve agreed with a soft chuckle of his own, his eyes suddenly moist, overwhelmed with a feeling of helplessness. He swallowed heavily. "So… so what do I do with _my_ tie?" he asked, trying to stay focused.

His head staying on the seat, Mike looked over. "Put a knot in it… and put it over your head… "

As Steve did as he was told, with a moan and a grimace Mike pushed himself upright again and carefully reached down into the well at his feet. His right hand came up with the property map. "We'll use this…" He turned slowly and carefully, placing the map on the seat between them. Awkwardly, with only one usable hand, he folded the stiff paper into a square roughly a foot wide. He looked up into his partner's wide, confused eyes and smiled reassuringly. "Lift your arm," he instructed softly.

Apprehensively, holding his breath, Steve put his left hand on the bloody shirtsleeve over the middle of his right forearm and raised it slightly, unable to stop the cry of pain the movement elicited.

As quickly as he could, Mike slipped the folded map under the injured arm. "Let go," he whispered quickly and Steve opened his fingers, his injured forearm now cradled in the stiff paper 'cast'. Startled, he looked up into his partner's almost smiling eyes.

Nodding, Mike said quietly, "Now you can use that tie as a sling…"

As Mike gently held the younger man's broken, bleeding and rapidly swelling arm, Steve awkwardly slipped the knotted tie around the 'cast', pulling the wider part to the bottom to give it more support. When the tie was in place, Mike carefully released his grip, watching as Steve closed his eyes in anticipation of the pain, then widening in surprise when it didn't hurt as much as he was expecting. "Thanks," he whispered breathlessly.

With an affectionate but still worried smile, Mike leaned back against the seat again and closed his eyes. The throbbing in his shoulder was getting easier to endure and he was starting to get some feeling back in his hand but moving his arm at all was still out of the question.

Steve had let his head drop back against the seat and was breathing heavily through his open mouth. He closed his eyes, trying to overcome the burning agony still coursing through his right arm. He tried to piece together the events of the past few minutes but nothing came back other than their frenzied retreat and escape.

Mike's words echoed in his ears; they were certainly in big trouble. Not only had both of them been shot but they were most probably still being tracked by whoever had ambushed them. They were at the end of a deserted road with no idea where they were, in a car with a ruptured radiator, and in the midst of a cold and paralyzing fog. And nobody knew where they were.

"What are we gonna do, Mike?" he asked quietly, hoping he was successful in keeping the fear, worry and pain out of his voice.

The older man snorted dryly. "I don't know, buddy boy, I don't know…" he responded softly, "but we're gonna have to do something… because I'm not gonna let us die out here, that's for sure…" He felt like he was finally getting the upper hand in his battle against the pain in his shoulder. He was pretty sure one of the bullets had gone straight through but the second one was lodged somewhere in his chest; that was a worry he would keep to himself.

He was becoming even more aware of the cold fog that continued to drift through the broken glass, a freezing dampness that was beginning to work its way through even the heavy fabric of his topcoat. He opened his eyes and looked across the front seat. Steve, his eyes closed and head back against the seat, was shivering, his teeth starting to chatter.

Alarmed, ignoring the eruption of pain in his shoulder, he pushed himself away from the seat again and turned to his partner. "Here," he said quickly, watching the green eyes slowly open and slide in his direction, "you need to put your jacket and coat back over your shoulder. It's freezing in here." He was reaching behind the younger man to try to get a grip on the coats.

Steve leaned forward slightly to allow Mike access and within seconds the heavier fabric of the jacket and raincoat were pulled over his shoulder, Mike clumsily trying to pull the raincoat closed. Satisfied he had done the best he could, the older man sat back again to catch his breath.

"We could turn the car on for the heater," he said eventually, "but it's not gonna last long with that hole in the radiator…"

"Yeah," Steve agreed bleakly. "As long as the battery holds out, we can use the radio, but there's nobody close enough to hear us, is there?"

Mike almost laughed. "Powell won't be looking for us for hours… unless he gets worried about us in this fog…" he ended on a somewhat optimistic note.

"Yeah," the younger man chuckled ironically, "who'da thought _that_ when we started the day, hunh?" He turned his head on the seat and looked over at his partner.

Mike's head was back and his eyes closed, but he was smiling. As the young man watched, the smile disappeared as Mike's right hand rose to his throat to pull the lapels of the topcoat together. He was shivering.

Afraid that his partner was going into shock, Steve sat forward, trying not to grimace as a fresh wave of pain washed over his arm. As he reached through the steering wheel and managed to pull the keys from the ignition, he felt Mike's eyes on him.

"What are you doing?" the older man asked dully.

The keys in his left hand, Steve said quickly and quietly, "I'll be right back," as he opened the door and gingerly got out, trying not to jostle his arm any more than necessary. Trying to keep the jacket and coat on his right shoulder, he crossed to the back of the car, opened the trunk and reached inside.

Mike heard and felt his door being opened.

"Slide over," Steve ordered quietly, and he turned slowly towards him. Between the pain and the cold, he was starting to have trouble focusing.

"What?"

"Slide over. I want to get in beside you."

Grimacing, Mike pushed himself away from the backrest and, trying not to give voice to the discomfort, put his right hand on the seat and slid to the left, closer to the steering wheel, until there was enough room for Steve to get in.

"I thought there was one of these in the trunk," the younger man explained as he tossed a thick grey wool blanket onto his partner's lap and settled into the seat.

With a snort and a smile, Mike looked down at the blanket in his lap, starting to unfold it one-handedly. Between them, they eventually managed to get it open and over them both, as they sat, shoulder to shoulder, alone together in a world of pain, worry and fear.

The sky was becoming a lot darker and the fog a lot thicker. And they both knew any hope for their survival was no longer in their own hands. They needed help... and they needed it fast.


	16. Chapter 16

Chief Powell got up from his desk and crossed to the window again, using his index finger to lift a slat on the Venetian blind. His brow furrowed even deeper. With a heavy sigh, he dropped the slat and turned to his desk, picking up an 11x14 piece of white bond paper and exiting the office.

He crossed the small bullpen to a desk against the far wall; Sergeant Dean Walker looked up as his boss approached. "What can I do for ya, Chief?"

"Dean, have a look at this," Powell said, dropping the black-and-white photocopy on the desk.

Walker leaned closer to study the grainy copy of the map Mike and Steve were using to locate the three Scott properties.

"Do you know where that is?" Powell asked.

After a couple of seconds, Walker looked up. "Yeah… yeah, I think I do. Why?"

"Remember those two San Francisco detectives I told you guys about, the ones looking for those properties that crazy _Reverend guy_ ," he snorted sarcastically, "bought?"

With a derisive chuckle and smirk, Walker nodded. "Yeah… They're doing that today, right?"

Powell nodded with a frown, hesitating a beat before continuing. "Now I could be wrong… but with this fog out there now and all…" He exhaled loudly. "I just have a bad feeling…" He stared at his sergeant, seemingly at loss for words.

Walker nodded. "So… you'd like me and Chris to maybe head out that way…? See if they need any help…?" he ventured.

"Well, they don't know the area… and I don't know if they know how bad a tule fog can get…" Walker nodded in agreement. "And we haven't heard from them all day, which makes me think that maybe the fog is interfering with the long distance transmission again…"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Walker offered and his captain nodded.

"Yeah, so if you and Chris…?"

"Consider it done," the big, blond uniformed sergeant with the military crew cut smiled as he got to his feet, grabbing his service hat from the corner of the desk.

# # # # #

Steve felt Mike move, starting to lean away, pushing the blanket towards him. He raised his head from the back of the seat. "What are you doing?" he mumbled. The blanket, and the closeness of his partner's body, had managed to alleviate some of the damp cold that had seeped into every nook and cranny of the car, and into them as well.

Mike glanced at him as he leaned forward, his right hand out. "Give me the keys."

Steve frowned. "What?"

"Give me the keys," Mike repeated patiently, almost smiling, gesturing with his fingers. "I'm gonna turn the car on for a few minutes."

"Mike…" the younger man warned, inclining his head.

"If the bullet went in high, like it probably did, there should be enough water still in the rad… for a few minutes anyway…" He gestured again.

Reluctant to move, not wanting to aggravate his injured arm anymore than necessary but knowing that Mike was right, he shifted slightly on the seat and dug into his raincoat pocket with his left hand, coming up with the keys.

Smiling, Mike took them and slipped the key into the ignition. But before he went any further, his hand returned to his right side and he slipped the .38 out of the holster and set it on the dashboard within easy reach.

Putting his hand back on the key, he turned the engine over. The roar of the engine sounded louder than normal and they both froze momentarily, knowing that if anyone was nearby, if anyone was still looking for them, they had just given themselves away. But they also both knew it was worth the risk.

The heater was already on full; it took a couple of minutes for the engine to warm up and for the cool air the fan was blowing to become welcomingly warm. Mike had snuggled back under the blanket, his head against the seat and eyes closed once more, like his partner. But both of them were on high alert, listening for any sound that would tell them they were no longer alone.

# # # # #

The Vacaville police cruiser, its yellow fog lights on, was creeping slowly down the wide asphalt road. Pulling his eyes from the passenger side window, Sergeant Walker picked up the mic. "Walker to Powell," he growled into the handset.

"Powell. Whatd'ya got, Dean?" came the tinny reply over the radio.

"We just checked out the first place… nobody's there. We didn't go in, just checked for their car. There's fresh tire tracks but only one set."

"Okay… How's the driving?"

Walker glanced at his partner behind the wheel, who turned to him with raised eyebrows and a shake of his head. "Chris says he's seen worse," Walker smiled as the balding sergeant laughed. "It's not good, Chief, but we're making progress. It ain't gonna be fast though."

"Okay. If it's really bad they may have just pulled over somewhere to wait it out."

"Then we'll find them. Did you say they were using Channel 4?"

"Yeah, I told them to use it if they needed to call us but Sara's heard nothing from them all day."

"Maybe they're just outa range. We'll give it a try."

"Okay. Use 'Inspectors Eight-One'. Let me know if you hear from them. Out."

Walker hung up the mic and looked at Hemming. "How long do you think it's gonna take to get to this second place?"

Hemming tilted his head and sighed in frustration. "In this? An hour…?"

"Damn," Walker muttered under his breath as he flipped the dial on the radio to 4 and picked up the mic again. "Inspectors 8-1, do you copy? Inspectors 8-1, please respond." He released the button and waited. Nothing. "Inspectors 8-1, please respond."

# # # # #

Trying not to aggravate his left shoulder, Mike wiggled out from under the blanket again and reached over to turn the car off, leaving the key in the ignition. He didn't want to press their luck. The powerful heater had managed to warm the interior of the car up nicely, but they both knew it was going to be only a matter of minutes until the cold foggy air would penetrate the broken windows once more.

As he sat back and started to pull the blanket around himself again, he looked at the young man beside him. Steve's eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, and there was a disturbing sheen of perspiration on his slack face.

"Steve?" Mike called quietly, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. When there was no response, he tried again, adding a gentle push with his right elbow. The younger man's head wobbled against the seat from the contact, and he slowly opened his eyes.

"Steve… look at me, buddy boy…" Mike's heart, which had leapt into his throat, had begun to pound. Grimacing from the ache in his shoulder, he turned as much as he could towards the younger man. "Look at me…" he repeated gently, "look at me…"

Steve's eyes had begun to focus but he seemed confused and faraway. Mike reached up with his good right hand and cupped his partner's chin, staring into the green eyes, trying not to let his worry show.

"'M okay, Mike," Steve mumbled with a failing attempt at a reassuring smile. "'M okay…"

Nodding gently, his features creasing into a warm smile, the older man said softly, "Sure you are, buddy boy, sure you are…" His chest now heaving, more from fear than pain, Mike released his partner's chin, pulling the blanket tighter around them both.

Closing his eyes, feeling powerless, he closed his eyes, knowing he was losing the battle against despair.

# # # # #

Hemming glanced down at the speedometer; the needle was hovering just below the 20. He looked across the front seat at his partner, who was staring out the side window.

Walker glanced over his shoulder and shook his head in frustration. They both knew they were going as fast as was humanly possible in the situation but it didn't help to assuage their uneasiness. Something felt wrong to them both, though neither would admit it just yet.

Walker picked up the mic and tried again to raise the two big city detectives. And again he was unsuccessful.

# # # # #

The cold starting to seep in under the blanket once more, Mike raised his head from the seat and looked at his partner. Steve's eyes were closed and, for all intents and purposes, he looked asleep. The fine sheen of perspiration he had seen before seemed to have disappeared.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, Mike pushed the blanket off himself once more and sat forward, trying not to disturb his companion; Steve didn't move. Slowly he reached out and slipped the mic from the hook, bringing it close to his lips. He pressed the Talk button. "Inspectors 8-1 to VPD Dispatch…" he said as loudly as he dared. He released the button and waited but only dead air filled the car. He tried again with the same result. With a worried and frustrated sigh, he returned the mic to the hook and sat back, failing to notice that the dial on the radio was set to Channel 2.

# # # # #

"Finally," Walker sighed as the yellow beams picked out the crushed grass at the side of the road. "This's gotta be the second property," he growled as his eyes scanned the photocopy on his lap once again in the dim dome light.

With a raised eyebrow glance across the front seat, Hemming turned the wheel of the late model police cruiser and the blue-and-white sedan started to bounce over the rough road. "Jeez, any other day we'da made that trip in minutes… that took over an hour…"

Walker exhaled loudly. "Let's just hope they're hunkered down here 'cause it's gonna take even longer to get to that third place, I'll bet."

The cruiser slowly jounced along, the fog lights illuminating the dirt road only feet in front of the grille. Eventually the trampled grass came to an end and Hemming braked and shifted into Park. Both officers, unsnapping their holsters, quietly stepped out of the car.

The two-storey black house loomed out of the fog and they exchanged a look then stepped away from the vehicle. The grounds were relatively small and there were no other buildings. And no sign of the tan LTD.

With a frustrated growl, Walker got back into the cruiser and picked up the mic. As Hemming started to slowly back the cruiser down the road, Walker brought Powell up to date.

# # # # #

Steve stirred slightly. The throbbing in his arm was almost bearable but he tried not to move. He opened his eyes. His partner's head, the fedora low over his eyes, was against the back of the seat, his eyes closed, breaths deep and even. The heavy wool blanket was still over them both.

It was pitch black in the car now, and he thought he could almost feel the tendrils of fog as it snaked its way around the car. He knew they had to get out of there, that if they waited too much longer they would both begin to succumb to the lethargy of hypothermia.

Slowly, trying not to aggravate his right arm or wake his partner, he began to push the blanket away. His left arm now free, he reached towards the mic and quietly slipped it from the hook. His eyes briefly flicked towards the dial and he froze: it was on Channel 2. Dropping the mic quickly onto his lap, he snapped the dial to 4 and picked the mic up again, bringing it to his mouth.

"Inspectors 8-1 to VPD Dispatch, come in please."

He released the button and waited. Nothing. As he repeated the call, he saw Mike's eyes open and the older man leaned forward slightly, trying not to wince. He was just about to try a third time with the radio sprang to life.

"Inspectors 8-1, this is Sergeant Walker! Can you hear me?!"

Steve's green eyes shot open and he turned to his partner.


	17. Chapter 17

Steve almost dropped the mic in his haste to push the Talk button again. "Yeah, yeah, we can hear you!"

" _Jeez, are we glad to hear from you guys? Where are you?"_

"We don't know. We were ambushed."

" _Ambushed? Are you all right?"_

"No. No, we've both been shot. We're okay but we're hurt, both of us."

There was an inaudible expletive then Walker's voice came through clearly again. _"Where are you?"_

"We don't know. We were at the third location…" Steve winced, catching his breath as the pain in his right forearm erupted. He felt Mike's hand on his left shoulder and an encouraging squeeze.

" _We're on our way there now –"_

"No!" Steve shouted into the mic then realized he had to wait till the other voice finished.

" _\- but it's going to take quite a while in this fog."_

"No," he repeated just as fiercely, "that's where we were hit. We got out of there fast but our car is disabled and we don't know where we are."

" _What do you remember about where you went?"_

"I'm not sure. We were both… we just drove till we found a place to turn in. We think we were followed. We turned down a lane but it ended at some trees."

" _Okay, we're on our way. But it's not gonna be anytime soon. Listen, I gotta get off and radio HQ, get some more guys out here and an ambulance. We'll get back to you guys asap."_

"Please hurry…"

" _You got it. Just… sit tight, okay… Take care of each other. We're on our way."_

Walker flipped the channel to 2 as Hemming, who had studied the rudimentary map while his partner talked to the detective, shifted into Drive, pushing the cruiser as fast as he dared in the thick fog.

# # # # #

Steve, not willing to let go of the mic, turned to look at his partner, who was staring at him with a soft smile. Mike's hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck and squeezed, refraining from the familiar shake that he usually applied in these situations.

# # # # #

Almost three quarters of an hour later, with Powell now up to speed, two more VPD cars being sent out, the State Police alerted and an ambulance on its way, Walker and Hemming had travelled less than three miles. The fog was now so thick and visibility so bad their speed had been reduced to little more than five miles an hour. According to the map, it was almost twenty-five miles between the two properties. At this rate, it could be dawn before they would even be in the vicinity.

And that was a long time for two injured men to be out in the cold fog… maybe too long.

# # # # #

Reassured that help was indeed finally on its way, Mike took the liberty of turning the engine on once more to warm the car. It didn't take long for the radiator to overheat, steam escaping from under the hood, and the engine had to be turned off.

The cold seemed to return faster, the blanket and their coats and clothing doing less and less in keeping them warm.

Steve pulled the blanket up over his head, trying not to shiver and failing miserably. Mike had put his good right arm around the younger man's shoulders, carefully avoiding the badly injured right arm, and pulled the smaller man closer. But they were both losing the battle.

The ache in Mike's shoulder had turned into a dull throb but he wasn't sure if it was because he was getting used to the pain or he was succumbing to the effects of hypothermia.

He could feel Steve shivering and he squeezed his eyes shut, in anger and helplessness. With a silent roar, ignoring the flare of pain in his shoulder, he pulled his right arm out from around the younger man and pushed the blanket away as he reached for the ignition. He felt Steve's eyes on him as he turned the car on again.

"The heater's staying on until the engine seizes," Mike whispered ferociously. "I don't give a damn about this car but I do about us."

Steve's eyes, which had been watching every move his partner made, filled with tears, overwhelmed with the love he felt for this man at this moment. He swallowed heavily, closing his eyes and resting his head on his partner's shoulder when Mike sat back again, arm once more around his shoulders.

# # # # #

A little more than an hour later, the car started to shudder and the engine suddenly stopped with a dying rattle. Though they couldn't see it through the fog, the hiss of escaping steam told them the radiator was well and truly dry.

Mike felt Steve's head bobble slightly as the young man chuckled, the sound wonderfully incongruous considering their circumstances. "What?"

"I was just thinking," Steve said softly, a hint of humour in his voice, "this is sort of like the end of 'Butch Cassidy', isn't it? The two heroes, down in Bolivia, all shot up, wondering how many bad guys were lying in wait for them outside the barn…"

Mike allowed himself a warm chuckle. "Yeah… except we're not in Bolivia, we're not in a barn and I don't think the Bolivian army is waiting for us to get outa the car…"

Steve snorted in derision but finished with a chuckle. "Well, I got the 'all shot up' part right…"

The older man chuckled again. "Yeah, you got that part right…"

" _Inspectors 8-1, you guys still there?"_

Mike pulled the blanket off them both as Steve struggled to sit up and reach for the mic. "Yeah, we're here."

" _Good, okay… so, ah, just to keep you guys up to speed, Chief Powell is about halfway here… the fog is starting to clear further south. We have an ambulance not too far behind us, and they're gonna keep coming."_

"That sounds great."

" _Now we think we're about an hour or so from that third location… You said you drove for about, what, five, ten minutes?"_

"I think so, but… I just don't know…"

" _That's okay… in this fog, you probably didn't go as far as you think you did. Now when we get closer, we'll call you again and then we'll start blasting the siren in short bursts and, if you guys can hear it, we can hone in on your location. How does that sound?"_

Steve glanced over his shoulder at his partner, who was starting to look almost relieved.

"That sounds great," Steve answered, his voice shaking with fatigue, pain and relief. "Don't forget about whoever ambushed us!"

Walker actually laughed. _"Don't worry about us, Steve. Chris and I have some badass shotguns and besides, we know they're out there. You guys just look after yourselves and we'll be there as soon as we can."_

Steve hung up the mic and sat back. He felt Mike's arm slide around his shoulders as they pulled the blanket over themselves again. As they settled in to wait once more, he heard Mike's soft voice in his ear, "Well, I guess I'll just have to start worrying about finding a turkey again, hunh?"

They both shook with gentle chuckles.

# # # # #

Mike came awake slowly, shivering in the cold. It took a couple of seconds to remember where he was, everything coming back to him in a split second when he started to sit forward and his left shoulder erupted in agony. Gasping for breath, he laid his head back against the seat and waited for it to subside enough for him to move again.

He had no idea how much time had passed since they had last communicated with the Vacaville cops who were trying to find them; he had the sudden need to find out how close they were. He began to gently ease his right arm out from behind his partner, expecting Steve to question what he was doing, but the younger man didn't move.

Alarmed, Mike pulled his arm free and, turning as quickly as he could, took Steve by the chin, trying to look at his face in the dim glow from the radio controls, the only light in the car. Releasing his hold on the young man's face momentarily, Mike reached over his head and flipped the dome light on then pressed his palm against Steve's forehead. He caught his breath; the younger man felt unnaturally warm. Trying to control his mounting anxiety, Mike dropped his hand and gently held his partner's chin again.

"Steve!" He shook the young man's head slightly but there was no reaction. "Steve, open your eyes! Open your eyes, damn it!"

There was still no response. Mike's heart began to pound and his mouth went dry; his gasp for breath was not one of pain but of fear. He looked around helplessly, not knowing what to do. Pulling the young man closer, resting his head against his chest, he reached for the mic and pulled it from the hook.

"Inspectors 8-1, are you there, Dean?"

" _Sure am, Mike, we're getting close. You guys okay?"_

"No… no, we're not. Steve's lost consciousness. He feels hot. I don't know what to do."

There was a brief pause then Walker's strong and encouraging voice came back over the radio. _"I don't think there's anything you can do, Mike, except keep him covered up and warm. We're gonna try to go a little faster, and I'm gonna start blasting the siren. It's gonna be hard in this fog but let me know when you start to hear it, okay?"_

"Okay…" Mike's voice was as shaky as his hand when he hung the mic back on the hook. He pulled the blanket off himself and wrapped it around his partner. "You're gonna be okay, Steve…" he whispered comfortingly as he tucked the edges of the blanket around the limp body, ignoring the pain in his shoulder that was starting to build once again.

Satisfied he had done all he could for the moment, he sat back and stared at the ceiling of the car, trying to blink away the tears that were clouding his vision. He was getting sick and tired of waiting for something to happen; it wasn't like him to let someone else take the lead, especially when his own welfare, and that of someone he loved, was on the line.

His breaths became deeper and longer as he fought his growing anger. With a glance over at his wounded partner, and with an almost angry roar, he slid towards the driver's side, under the steering wheel, reached across his body and opened the door. Trying desperately to ignore the pulsing pain in his left shoulder, using his right hand to raise his left and slip it between the buttons of his topcoat as a makeshift sling, he shut the door and crossed to the back of the car.

Orienting himself in the dark and the fog, with one more glance over his shoulder at the back window and the dim interior light inside the disabled LTD, he started slowly up the overgrown track they had driven down in a frenzy of fear and pain so many hours before.

The going was a lot harder than he had anticipated; the road was uneven and he stumbled often. Every misstep sent shockwaves through his body and the pain in his shoulder, the pain that he had gotten under control, was once more unleashed.

He tripped over a large dead branch and fell to his knees, stopping himself with his right arm, but the jarring impact took his breath away and it took several seconds, and several held breaths, before he could get to his feet. Disoriented, he looked around, suddenly unsure of the direction he was heading.

He took a few tentative steps forward. He could feel a cold wetness on his shoulder and knew he had started to bleed again. He didn't care. He needed to find help, no matter what the cost. He started to walk a little faster with a renewed urgency.

The low hanging branch of a foothill pine caught him in the face, knocking the fedora to the ground. He staggered to a stop, rattled but not hurt, then bent slowly to feel around for his hat. His fingers touched the soft felt and he put the hat back on before he straightened up. He took another step then stopped.

Everything around him had begun to spin. His right arm shot out, as if he was trying to balance himself; black spots danced before his eyes and his knees buckled. He felt weak and lightheaded. Groping in the dark, suddenly unsure of where he was, he took a few unsteady steps, his right hand striking the rough bark of the pine tree and he moved closer to brace himself against it, trying to fight the nausea and dizziness that was engulfing him.

It was a fight he couldn't win. His hand still on the tree, he slid slowly to the ground, his legs folding beneath him as he tried to lean against the pine. The pain in his shoulder was suddenly overwhelming and he could feel the warm blood soaking his shirt afresh.

He slumped back against the tree, unable to move, unable to see, unable to think. He eyes were open but they were staring at nothing. His head fell forward onto his chest, then very slowly his body crumpled to the ground.

A hundred yards away, on the disintegrating asphalt of the two lane blacktop, the yellow fog lights of the blue-and-white police cruiser pierced the gloom as it drove slowly by, its intermittent siren cutting through the heavy, deadly, silent fog.


	18. Chapter 18

"God damn it, I wish this would start easing up," Walker growled as his eyes raked both sides of the road. "I can't see a damn thing. We could drive right past them and not even see them… Damn it!"

With a loud, frustrated exhale, he grabbed the mic again, not taking his eyes from the windshield. Hemming continued to scan the road as he stepped on the gas a little harder.

"Dean to Mike, are you there, Mike?" _Radio protocol be damned_ , he thought; for some reason, this whole situation had rapidly become personal.

There was no response.

He tried again. "Dean to Mike, come in, Mike!"

When the silence lengthened, he glanced at his partner. "What do you think? Their battery went dead?"

Hemming shrugged, frowning. "Maybe… but it didn't sound like it was dying when we talked to him the last time…"

"Yeah…" Walker tried to raise the San Francisco detective again, with the same result. "Damn it," he cursed as he flipped the dial to Channel 2 and brought the mic back to his mouth. "Unit 16 to Chief Powell. Are you there, sir?" he said quickly.

" _Yeah, Dean, what've you got?"_

"We're very close, sir, but we haven't located them yet… and they aren't responding anymore."

" _What do you mean?"_

"About a half hour ago the lieutenant told us his partner had lost consciousness… and he didn't sound so good himself. When I tried contacting him just now to tell him we're in the area, he didn't respond."

" _You think their battery died?"_

Walker hesitated slightly before responding. "We can only hope so, sir."

Powell knew what he meant. _"We're about an hour behind you, maybe sooner if this fog starts to lift. It seems to be breaking up a little down here. The ambulance is closer to you than we are. It's coming down from Sacramento. Keep an eye out for them too."_

"We will, sir. Out." He hung up the mic.

Hemming brought the Plymouth Fury to a stop in the middle of the road. He shifted into Reverse.

"What are you doing?" Walker asked with a confused frown.

"I have a feeling we drove right past it," the bald sergeant growled as he twisted to look out the rear window and swung the large sedan into a tight three-point turn, the yellow fog lights piercing the thick mist slightly deeper than they had before. "I think it's finally starting to lift a little," he mumbled as the wheel straightened out and the cruiser started back down the blacktop they had just covered.

"A little…" Walker mumbled with a dry sarcastic snort as he pulled his eyes from his scrutiny of the road and glanced at his watch, pushing the tiny button to illuminate the face. 4:48. The sun wouldn't start to rise for at least another two hours. He rolled down the window and stuck his hand out then turned to look across the seat. "I think it's actually starting to get a little warmer out there; the wind must've shifted. That's why the fog starting to lift. But it's still damn cold though."

Hemming stomped on the brake and the car jerked to a stop.

"What?" Walker responded almost automatically, on full alert, following his partner's stare out the windshield.

A soft glow could be seen through the fog up ahead, getting closer. Hemming shifted into Reverse, keeping his foot on the brake and leaving the headlights on. Both cops drew their weapons and raised them, bracing their hands on the dashboard. They waited as the lights got closer.

Suddenly they heard the familiar whoop-whoop and saw the flashing red lights of an ambulance cutting through the fog. With a sigh and a quick chuckle of relief, they holstered their revolvers. As Hemming flashed the headlights and shifted into Park, Walker got out of the cruiser and approached the ambulance, which had stopped about fifteen feet in front of them.

"Dean!" he heard a familiar voice call his name as he approached the driver's side.

"Phil, is that you?"

"Yeah, man," Phil Woods answered, his head out the side window. "Jeez, you guys were hard to find; it took us forever to get here."

Walker stopped beside the driver's door, nodding at the young blond-haired Woods and his colleague.

"You know John, right?" Woods asked, tilting his head towards the other man on the front seat.

"Sure do," Walker nodded. "John. You this lunatic's new partner?"

John Callister returned the nod with a laugh. "Unfortunately, yes. He hasn't been down here for awhile; I know the area better. You guys found the detectives yet?"

The cop shook his head. "Not yet, and I think they're in real trouble. We talked to the lieutenant about an hour ago and he said his partner had lost consciousness, and now we've lost contact with the lieutenant as well."

"We were told one was hit in the arm, the other in the shoulder?" Callister confirmed.

"That's what they told us."

"And about twelve hours ago?"

"About that, yeah."

Callister looked at Woods, who turned to Walker with raised eyebrows. "Then we better find 'em fast."

"Hey, either of you two know this area really well?!" Hemming's loud voice caused them all to jump. Walker glanced over his shoulder to see his partner approaching rapidly, the photocopy of the map in his hand. Hemming held it up, his face a question.

"I've been answering calls in this area for almost ten years, I know it pretty well," Callister offered, opening the door and jumping out onto the asphalt. He crossed around the ambulance and approached Hemming, who handed him the map. They stepped into the headlights, Callister tilting the map so they could see it.

"We're near here, right?" Hemming asked, pointing at a spot on the map.

The older man studied it then nodded. "Yeah…yeah, I know where that place is. I answered a call there once. It's a… a single storey farmhouse, if I remember correctly." He looked up at the taller man. "Is that where they are?"

Walker, who had joined them, shook his head. "No, that's where they were ambushed. They said they backed out of there and drove about five or ten minutes till they pulled off into a dead end. They think they went right but they were both shot up and in a lot of pain so they weren't really sure and they don't know where they are…"

"But they gotta be close," Hemming added. "Do you remember seeing any… I don't know, cart paths or abandoned roads in that area, close to the farmhouse?"

Callister took a step back, thinking. He brought a hand to his face and stroked his chin, his brow furrowed. He started to shake his head, then stopped. "Yeah…" He looked at the two cops, his eyes suddenly wide. "Yeah, yeah I think so. It's, ah… it's about a half mile… east, on the left side I'm pretty sure. We pulled in there first thinking it was the farmhouse."

Walker looked at Hemming. "That can't be too far from here, let's go." The two cops sprinted to their cruiser as Callister got back into the ambulance.

# # # # #

The cruiser led the ambulance at a crawl down the road after Callister confirmed they were heading in the right direction, both vehicles flashing their red lights. Every few seconds, Hemming blasted the siren; Woods was doing the same. They were broadcasting their presence in every way possible.

Walker was leaning out the passenger side window staring at the tall vegetation that lined the road, looking for any sign of a disturbance. He was afraid to even blink lest he missed it, but they were driving so slowly that wasn't really an issue.

"There! There!" he suddenly yelled, and Hemming slammed his foot on the brake, the car lurching to a stop. Pulling his gun, Walker got out and started to sprint down the almost invisible lane, noting the one set of tire tracks that had flattened the grass at the edge of the road, some of which had already sprung back. Behind him, he could hear Hemming turning the cruiser into the lane to begin the rough trip along the uneven and winding dirt path, the ambulance on his back bumper.

Fighting to see through the still heavy fog, using the lights from the car behind him to help illuminate his way, Walker rounded a bend and stopped abruptly. The tan LTD, its dome light on, stood silently at the end of the short stretch near a wall of trees. "We got 'em!" he yelled into the air as he heard the cruiser come to a stop behind him.

Holstering his revolver, Walker bolted to the driver's side door and yanked it open, freezing in surprise when he spied only one occupant of the unmarked sedan.

Surmising quickly that this was Steve, the younger of the two San Francisco detectives, he called over his shoulder at the rapidly approaching Hemming, "The lieutenant's not here!"

Hemming pulled the passenger front door open as the two ambulance attendants, carrying a litter, reached the rear of the sedan. As Hemming stepped back to allow Woods and Callister access to their patient, Walker slipped the flashlight off his belt and snapped it on. He turned and started to scan the thick copse of trees that surrounded them.

"Where the hell is he?" Walker mumbled under his breath. "Chris!" he called over the roof to his partner, jerking his head towards the trees on the other side of the car. "He couldn't've gotten far." They moved off in different directions, Hemming turning on his own flashlight.

Woods kneeled on the seat beside Steve and gently pulled the blanket away from his head. The young cop's eyes were closed and he didn't react when they touched him. Callister had crossed around to the driver's side and slid onto the seat under the steering wheel.

Between them, needing to assess their patient's injuries before deciding how to move him, they carefully eased the blanket from around the injured man; Callister quickly stuffed it into the foot well beneath the steering wheel. Both of them studied the makeshift sling that they could see had been fashioned from some stiff paper and a tie, incongruously impressed, but it was the bloody sleeve and crude tourniquet that gave them pause, and concern.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Woods said to his partner, putting the backs of his fingers against the cop's flushed cheek. "He's running a bit of a temperature but he's not too bad. Let's get him into the bus and get him on plasma."

"We're gonna have to stabilize that arm first. I'll go get some tensor bandages." Callister backed out of the car and sprinted to the ambulance, its spinning red lights casting an eerie pulsing glow on the still thick and cold fog.

# # # # #

"Mike!" Walker was yelling into the void. They weren't worried about being ambushed by whoever had gotten the drop on the detectives; they had seen no sign anywhere that what had happened at the third Scott location had spilled out into the rest of the countryside. But that was a mystery to be investigated later, when the lieutenant and his partner were safely in their hands and on their way to the nearest hospital.

He stumbled into a hole, almost going down. "Shit!" he cursed under his breath as he pushed himself back to his feet, brushing the dead, wet leaves sticking to his hand off on his pants. He brought the flashlight up again and panned it around. He could barely see two feet in front of himself. "Where the hell is he?" he mumbled under his breath.

He shivered involuntarily. Even with his heavy woollen jacket he was starting to get chilled. If the lieutenant had left the car shortly after their last transmission, he could've been out here for over an hour. It didn't bode well.

He could hear Hemming calling the lieutenant's name off in the distance, but in these conditions he had no idea how close or how far away his partner was.

Suddenly the faint but familiar squawk of a cop car siren could be heard through the heavy air and Walker turned to see a dim headlight glow approaching on the main road a couple of hundred yards away. He watched as the cruiser slowed then sped up slightly to disappear behind some large bushes.

Dropping his flashlight beam to the rough ground at his feet, Walker began to sprint as fast as he dared back to the clearing. The more officers they could get to help in the search, the better.

Concentrating on maintaining his balance on the uneven terrain, his booted right foot slammed down on the damp soil, slipping slightly before he caught his balance. He didn't see the black topcoat-covered body lying less than two feet away.


	19. Chapter 19

**My sincerest appreciation to those who keep reading and those who take the time to review. It is always grateful to know that others love these characters and this world as much as I do. Thanks for the support!**

Walker approached the white cruiser with the State Police shoulder patch insignia on the door that had pulled up behind the ambulance. Leaving the car running and the lights on, two uniformed officers got out, putting on their hats as they turned to their VPD counterparts.

"You fellas are a long way from home," the CSP driver observed with a curious frown.

"You have no idea," Walker confirmed with a tilt of his head. "I'll explain later, if that's okay. We're working against the clock right now, I'm afraid." He extended his right hand. "Sergeant Walker." He nodded over his shoulder at his partner. "Sergeant Hemming."

"I'm Officer Rios; this is Officer Malone. What can we do to help?"

Walker nodded towards the LTD, with its front doors open and dome light on as the medics continued to attend to their patient.

"We've got two San Francisco detectives who were ambushed last night at a farmhouse not too far from here. Both of them have been shot. They managed to get away and find refuge here in the fog, but the car is disabled and they didn't know where they were. We found them about twenty minutes ago but one of them is missing – the lieutenant. He couldn't've gotten far; he's been shot in the shoulder and he could be suffering from hypothermia."

Rios was looking around at the trees, the thick brush and the fog. "And you think he's around here someplace?"

"I think he's down somewhere and we just gotta find him. His name is Mike Stone."

Rios nodded, frowning in concern. "Ben, get on the horn and radio Jack and Dave. Tell 'em what we're doing and to get their asses here as soon as they can." As his partner crawled back into the car to get on the radio, he turned to Walker. "They'll join us when they can; this way they know what we need without us having to explain it all again." He slipped a large flashlight off his belt and snapped it on. "Let's go."

# # # # #

Callister handed two wide tensor bandages to his colleague; Woods put one of them on the seat.

"Okay, let's wrap these around his arm carefully - we gotta be really careful of that wound in his upper arm here - and around his chest to anchor his arm. Then we can cut off this… cast when we get him into the bus. That a plan?" Woods looked up at Callister.

"Sounds good to me. I think we should leave his coats on for now too. What do you think?"

"Yeah, I think you're right. He needs all the warmth he can get right now. Speaking of which," Woods inquired as his partner moved the injured detective slightly forward so they could reach around him with the tensor bandages, "did you leave the heat on?"

"Full blast."

"Good."

Moving slowly but confidently, they wrapped and secured the two wide bandages around Steve's chest, holding his immobile injured arm in place. Woods backed out of the car, rearranged the stretcher closer to the door then got back in.

"Okay, lean him my way," he said and Callister nodded, taking a gentle but firm grip on Steve's left shoulder and turning him so Woods could lower his upper body to the seat then slide his arms under his shoulder while Callister took his legs. Between them, they pulled Steve out of the car and lowered him carefully onto the stretcher, then lifted it and crossed slowly towards their ambulance.

Gently laying the litter on the ground behind the bus, Callister opened the large left side door and slid one of the two drop-leg gurneys out, allowing it to expand to its full height. They transferred Steve onto it then slid it back into the ambulance. They both jumped in and closed the doors, trying to preserve the warmth, leaving the litter on the ground. If they were lucky, they would be needing it for the lieutenant very soon.

# # # # #

The four police officers, flashlights in hand, had fanned out and were slowly and carefully making their way through the pine forest in an arc away from the assembled vehicles. All four kept calling the lieutenant's name, trying to see through the still dense fog, trying not to overlook anything that could signal the injured man's location.

They weren't having any luck.

Cursing under his breath, Walker glanced up, trying to locate his colleagues. The going was rough; the bush was thick in places, there were a lot of low hanging branches to avoid and it was black as pitch, not to mention the thick, cold fog that continued to linger. There was too much ground to cover; they needed more men.

He glanced up as he heard the distant crunch of tires on gravel; another cruiser had arrived. He exhaled loudly in short-lived relief, but he knew they were still facing an uphill battle.

"Mike!" he yelled as he plowed on, his flashlight beam raking the thick undergrowth around him.

# # # # #

With Callister holding Steve in a half-sitting position, Woods carefully unwrapped the tensor bandages and pulled the raincoat and suede jacket off, exposing the blood soaked shirtsleeve and the makeshift sling. He exhaled loudly before they laid him back down. "Okay, give me the scissors. We gotta get this off him and see what we've got."

As Callister steadied the young detective's injured arm, Woods cut the tie, dropping it to the floor, then slowly and gently pulled the blood-soaked paper cast free from the badly swollen arm. Both medics winced; it looked bad.

It was obvious that a bullet had passed through the cop's forearm, breaking the ulna. The splintered ends of the bone were visible through the raggedly torn skin and muscle.

Picking up the scissors again, Woods cut the second tie, with the ballpoint pen still in the knot, around Steve's upper arm. Tossing it aside, he sliced the bloody sleeve all the way up to the shoulder, exposing the wound in the bicep. A quick examination showed that it had caused a lot less damage and, thankfully, was actually fairly minor.

Exchanging a somewhat relieved look with his partner, Callister nodded at the cop's forearm. "Okay, let's flush this with as much saline as we can and get it splinted and wrapped." He steadied the arm as Woods turned to the cabinet behind him to retrieve what they needed.

As he rifled through the drawer, Woods glanced worriedly at the back doors. The longer it took to find the lieutenant, he knew, the worse their chances were becoming.

# # # # #

When he lost sight of the flashing lights of the three cruisers and the ambulance, and could no longer hear the shouts of his colleagues, Walker reluctantly turned and started back. It would do no one any good if he got himself lost. They would have to expand the search after the sun came up and the fog got thinner.

His eyes still on the ground, cursing under his breath, he almost didn't hear the shout.

"Got him!" a loud cry cut through the gloom.

Walker's head snapped up and he started running as fast as he dared in the direction of the shout. He could see the bobbing flashlight beams of the other cops slowly converging at a spot about two hundred feet ahead.

"Ben, get the stretcher!" he heard Rios order and a shadowy figure took off towards the vehicles. "And get the blanket from the trunk!"

Walker was the last to arrive. Rios was kneeling, the others standing over him in a tight circle, their flashlights trained on the ground. The unconscious lieutenant was laying almost facedown on the damp soil, on his left side, his legs doubled under him as if he was trying to sit against the nearby pine before he collapsed. They could see his upper neck, chin and part of one cheek under the fedora.

Rios, who had been wearing leather gloves, took the right one off before he reached down and gently pressed two fingers against the lieutenant's neck. "He's really cold," the State cop said quickly, almost under his breath.

They all waited, holding their breaths. After several silent seconds, Rios looked up, shaking his head. "I can't feel a pulse," he said shakily.

Walker dropped to his knees beside his colleague. "Let's roll him over," he said softly, trying not to think about what Rios had just said.

They could hear Malone approaching through the dense undergrowth.

Officer Dave Cherry, one of the State cops who had arrived in the last car, knelt as well, looking at Walker and Rios for instruction as he kept his flashlight trained on Mike's head. "Straighten his legs while we turn him," Rios said softly to Cherry before nodding at Walker. They put their hands on Mike's head and right shoulder and gently rolled him onto his back as Cherry held his legs.

Hemming trained his flashlight beam on the lieutenant's left shoulder; they could all see the two bullet holes in the fabric of the black topcoat.

Out of breath, Malone finally reached them. He put the stretcher down beside the injured man, tossing the blanket at Hemming, who caught it deftly. Rios and Walker moved so they were at Mike's head, Malone and Cherry at his feet. On a count of three from Walker, they lifted Mike quickly and laid him on the stretcher. Hemming spread the blanket over him as the four burly cops lifted the litter and, with Hemming and Cherry's partner, Jack Simpson, leading the way with their flashlights, they covered the uneven and slippery ground towards the ambulance as quickly as possible, straining to keep the stretcher level.

Hemming knocked on the ambulance door with the butt of his flashlight. Callister opened it quickly, his dark eyes taking in the situation instantly. He jumped to the ground and opened the other door, pulling the second gurney out.

"I couldn't find a pulse," Rios said worriedly. Callister nodded as Woods glanced their way, frowning.

Walker pulled the blanket off the litter before, on the medic's nod, the four cops gently lifted their wounded colleague and set him on the gurney, then slid it into the back of the ambulance beside his still unconscious partner. All six cops gathered at the open doors, their faces masks of concern. Callister started to close the doors then stopped, nodding at them grimly.

Woods, a stethoscope around his neck, was busy finishing the set-up for Steve's plasma IV. He looked at the unconscious man on the second gurney; the lieutenant didn't look good.

"Phil?" Callister asked softly.

"Almost done." Woods opened the slide clamp on the clear plastic tube to activate the IV then glanced at their audience. Their worry was palpable. He turned away from the first gurney and leaned over the second. Putting the tips of the stethoscope in his ears, he placed the diaphragm against the left side of the lieutenant's neck and froze, concentrating. Every eye was locked on the medic's face, waiting for his reaction.

No one moved.


	20. Chapter 20

After what seemed like an eternity, Woods nodded, almost smiling. "He has a pulse. It's weak and it's slow but it's there."

There was a collective release of held breaths as the cops absorbed the information. Walker looked down, balling up the blanket he still held in his hands. "Damn," he breathed heavily, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

"Listen, guys, we're gonna need all the blankets you have," Callister raised his voice, trying to get their attention as he took the one from Walker with a grateful smile and draped it over the unconscious lieutenant's legs.

After a split second for the request to sink it, three of the cops bolted away.

"There's one in the LTD under the steering wheel!" Woods yelled then turned to the second gurney and gave Mike a quick once-over.

Callister closed one of the back doors to keep the heat inside the vehicle then moved to the far side of the gurney.

Both medics had acknowledged the two holes in the topcoat. Callister removed the fedora and tossed it out of the way towards the back door. With an ease and dexterity born of long experience, Woods started to quickly undo the upper buttons of the topcoat, suitcoat, vest and shirt, the latter two soaked with blood. He used the scissors to cut through the once white undershirt and pulled the wet material away from lieutenant's left shoulder, exposing the two bullet wounds, one high near the collarbone, the second about two inches lower and closer to the sternum.

On his partner's nod, Callister helped to lift and roll Mike's upper body slightly to the right. Woods pulled the clothes down far enough so he could see his patient's back. "There's only one exit wound… the upper one." They laid Mike back down. "Get me one of the large pressure dressings… and one of the small towels."

As Callister turned to rifle through the bins built into the side for what he needed, Woods reached into his uniform pocket and removed a small black tube, opening it quickly to slide a thermometer out. He reached across the gurney and pulled the clothes away from Mike's right shoulder, slipping the thermometer under his arm. Leaving it there, he grabbed a sterile wipe and cleaned the two bullet wounds as best he could then he picked up a thick gauze bandage and ripped it from the packaging.

Callister turned back with the dressing and towel, setting them down on the blanket over Mike's legs, then helped his partner to roll the injured man again. Woods placed the gauze bandage over the exit wound, taped it into place and they lowered him back down.

Woods glanced up at the back door; the cops were staring at them almost without blinking, it seemed. A folded blanket had appeared in the doorway; suddenly another one was dropped on top of it.

Swallowing a spontaneous smile of awe at this display of the power of the brotherhood, Woods picked up the pressure dressing and turned back to his patient. He positioned the large thick compress over the two wounds then, with Callister holding the bloody clothing out of the way, folded the white towel and laid it over the dressing, tucking it over Mike's shoulder, around his side and as far down his chest as it would go, separating the wet bloody clothing from his skin.

Woods reached for the thermometer and removed it, holding it close so he could read it. He glanced at Callister with raised eyebrows. "89.3," he said, almost in awe then turned to the cops, whose eyes were still following their every move. "It's bad," he confirmed, "but I've seen worse. A lot worse, so he's got a good chance. We just have to get him to the hospital as soon as we can."

Instantly Walker sprung to action, nodding. "Listen, ah, I'll ride with you, if that's okay, and Chris here'll give us a lights and sirens lead, okay?" On Woods' confirming nod, he turned to the others, moving them closer to their cruisers in time to see the headlights of another approaching car bouncing off the fog and trees at the end of the line of vehicles near the road. All six cops started in that direction.

Callister picked up the small stack of blankets that had found their way to the back of the ambulance. "Let's get him covered up," he said with a nod at Mike. Woods had pulled the many layers of clothes back into place and the blanket up to Mike's chin.

"Have we still got a couple of those heavy towels up front?" Woods asked as he helped his partner lay the four thick grey wool blankets over the wounded cop.

"I think so."

"Get 'em. I'm going to start him on oxygen."

# # # # #

Both doors of the Vacaville Police Department cruiser opened simultaneously, Chief Powell stepping out from behind the wheel. "What's going on, Dean?" he called out as his two sergeants approached at a jog.

Though the fog was still fairly thick, there were enough headlights and flashing reds to illuminate the area around them.

"We found 'em, Chief," Walker almost shouted, urgency in his voice. "They're in the ambulance and just about ready to go."

"How bad are they?"

Both of his sergeants shook their heads. "They're both unconscious, wounded and suffering from hypothermia. The lieutenant's a lot worse. We gotta get 'em to the hospital - fast."

"You need us to get our cars…?" Powell jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the road.

"Yes, sir," Hemming confirmed and the Chief tossed the keys to the patrolman that had arrived with him, who jogged around the car and got behind the wheel.

As the cruiser was backed quickly onto the road, Powell turned to his men. "What are you thinking, Dean?" he asked his sergeant, knowing the veteran cop would have already formulated a plan.

"Well, if it's okay with you, sir, Chris and I would like to escort the ambulance into Sacramento. In this weather, I don't want them alone in case something happens, and we'll be able to really make time if this fog starts to lift."

"Sounds good," Powell agreed.

"But, sir," Walker continued quickly, "I think we also have to go after whoever did this, and do it now. We have four State Police officers with us right now and another car is on its way; they should be here anytime. And with you two, that's eight. I don't know if you want to, sir, but we know where that farmhouse is now and you guys could raid it as soon as the sun comes up." He paused, eyebrows raised, allowing Powell to digest the suggestion.

The Chief started to nod slowly. "I like your idea, Dean. And we don't have to wait for a warrant as we have extenuating circumstances, don't we?" Both sergeants nodded. Powell's nods became bigger. "Yeah, yeah, I like that idea a lot. Okay, ah," he looked around, remembering what Walker had said earlier. "So let's get these cars outa here and get you and that ambulance on the road."

# # # # #

Walker rapped on the back of the ambulance and Woods opened the door to see the sergeant and an older man, in a fancier uniform, that he didn't recognize. "Phil, this is Chief Powell, my boss. Chris and I are going with you, he's gonna stay here with the others."

After exchanging a brief nod with the medic, Powell had looked past him to the blanket-covered occupants of the two gurneys. He could see some of Steve's face but Mike was completely covered with several heavy blankets; a couple of large white towels were draped across his forehead and tucked around his head. The only thing he could really see was the oxygen mask covering the detective's nose and mouth. Remembering the two affable men he had hosted in his office just recently, the sight was disturbing.

They could hear the State Police cruisers being backed out of the narrow area. Walker stepped up into the ambulance and turned to Powell. "Good luck, sir."

"You too, Dean." Powell shut the door.

As Walker moved to the side to take a seat near Mike, he spotted the discarded fedora lying brim up in the corner against the other door. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand, and tried to brush the dirt and dead leaves off the soft felt. As he sat on the small seat beside Mike's gurney, taking off his own cap and setting it on the floor beside him, he slowly reached out and gently laid the fedora on the blanket.

# # # # #

Walker glanced at his watch. They had been on the road for almost a half hour and he knew they hadn't gotten very far. He had exchanged a lot of concerned looks with the medic, who continued to monitor his two blanket-covered patients.

He found himself staring at the oxygen mask covering the lieutenant's face. "He should've stayed in the car…" he mumbled and saw Woods head come up.

"What?"

With a snort, Walker shook his head in apology. "Sorry, I was just talking to myself." He sighed. "He shouldn't've left the car… I told him we were near and that we'd start blasting the horn so he could hear us and tell us where they were."

Woods almost smiled. "You know, one of the symptoms of hypothermia is the gradual onset of what they call 'muddled thinking'. His body temperature was already dropping, probably as much as his partner's, if not more. So, chances are he wasn't thinking straight. Maybe he thought he did hear you… or maybe he just wanted to find help for his partner… He probably didn't even remember what you told him… What was the last thing he said to you?"

Walker thought about it, his eyes returning to the blanket-covered figure before him. "He sounded worried. He said Steve," he nodded towards the other gurney, "had lost consciousness and that he was hot…" He frowned and shrugged.

The medic nodded knowingly. "That makes sense, it really does. Steve…?" he tried the name and Walker nodded. "Steve is a little warm but he's not hot. He only felt hot because Mike was so cold. And in Mike's mind, a mind that was slowing down because of the cold, he must've felt his only choice was to get help… and to him that meant leaving the car…"

Still staring at the oxygen mask, Walker took a deep breath. "He could still die, couldn't he?"

Woods paused before answering. "Well, anything's possible but I really believe we got to him on time. I've seen people a lot worse off than he is make a full recovery."

He raised his eyebrows. "And I guess a lot depends on where that bullet is, the one that's still in him."

There was a slight movement from Steve's gurney and both men's attention instantly refocused in that direction. The young cop had turned his head towards them and a moan escaped from his slightly parted lips. "Mmmm…. Mi… Mi…?" His head moved again, a little faster.

Woods leaned over him. "Steve, can you hear me?"

There was a more pronounced headshake followed by another moan. "Mi…?"

"Steve… Steve, you have to stay still, okay…? You need to relax… " Woods looked over his shoulder at the uniformed cop on the other side of the second gurney; Walker's eyes were fixed on the San Francisco inspector.

"He wants to know about his partner."

Woods turned back to Steve, who was becoming more agitated. "Steve, you're in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Mike is with you, he's on the gurney beside you…"

His eyes closed, the young man began to move even more, as if he was trying to get up. Glancing at Walker for help, Woods stood and put his hands lightly on Steve's shoulders to hold him down. Walker moved around Mike into the small passageway between the two gurneys and sat on the small stool Woods had just vacated. He leaned over his colleague as the medic continued to struggle to keep his patient calm.

"Steve… Steve, this is Dean. Dean Walker, the sergeant from Vacaville? I was the guy you and Mike were talking to over the radio… do you remember…?"

The young detective seemed to relax slightly and he stopped moving around, his eyes remaining closed. "Mike… I want Mike…"

"He's right here, Steve, he's right beside you…" He glanced at Woods, who had released his grip on Steve's shoulders and stood, giving the uniformed cop more room.

They could see movement under the blankets; Steve was trying to free his left hand. "Mike… Mike…" he continued to moan as he reached out blindly.

Walker stared at the flailing hand for a moment, as if unsure what to do. Then he reached out and grabbed it. The mild thrashing came to a halt and Steve's entire body relaxed as his fingers curled around the big cop's warm hand.

Walker squeezed back. He looked up at Woods with wonder and an almost unbearable sadness. Slowly he reached out with his free hand and gently laid it on the blanket over Mike's chest, taking some small measure of comfort in its slow but steady rise and fall. Then he let his head fall forward and he closed his eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

Walker had no idea how long he had been sitting there, holding Steve's hand, before he felt the ambulance pick up speed. He raised his head; Woods was looking at him. Almost instantly they both smiled with relief as the sirens from the ambulance and the cruiser began to blare.

"It won't be long now," Woods said, glancing at his watch. 6:35. "Minutes, I would think."

He was right. A little more than ten minutes later they felt the ambulance slow and knew they were turning off the I-80 onto the 50 for the short drive to the Sacramento Medical Center.

Woods started to prepare for the egress of his patients, making sure everything was ready. As the ambulance came to a quick but smooth stop, he picked up the oxygen tank that was feeding Mike's mask and placed it on the gurney between his legs.

Both back doors were thrown open; several people in scrubs and white coats were standing at the ready. Walker stood up, still holding Steve's hand, and grabbed the fedora.

"This one first," Woods barked, gesturing at Mike's gurney and hands reached in to pull it out. He jumped out as they started to race towards the Emergency entrance, calling out all the information the trauma team would need to begin treating the lieutenant.

Callister, who was now at the back of the ambulance, helped to pull Steve's gurney out, Walker staying alongside, unwilling to let go of the inspector's hand. As the team jogged towards the entrance, the medic filled the others in on the injuries the cop had suffered.

When they reached the doors to the trauma unit, knowing he had no choice, Walker reluctantly released Steve's hand and watched as the gurney and the group of doctors and nurses surrounding it disappeared from sight. By the time he had wandered to the waiting area, Hemming had joined him.

"So, ah, we got 'em here… and in pretty good time too," Hemming said, sensing an unfamiliar melancholy, and a pronounced reluctance to leave, in his partner of two years.

"Yeah… yeah, we did," Walker nodded distractedly, looking down at the fedora in his hands.

Hemming stared at him for a couple of silent seconds then asked with a deliberate casualness, "So, ah, so what? You want to hang around here for a bit… or head back down south…?"

Walker looked up quickly, as if realizing how odd he was acting. "Oh, ah, let's hang around here for a bit. I want to find out, you know, their… prognosis… so we can tell the Chief," he finished weakly with a shrug.

"Yeah, yeah," Hemming nodded slowly, going along. He glanced around the half empty waiting room and then at his watch. "Listen, ah, I don't know about you but I'm starving. I don't think we're gonna hear anything for awhile, you know, so why don't we head down to the cafeteria and I'll buy us some breakfast, what dya say?"

Walker stared at his partner, knowing what he was trying to do. He smiled with a dry snort. "Yeah, I'm starving too. I guess we've done everything we can do, right?" He sighed, the smile melting away. "It's up to the doctors now, right?"

"Right," Hemming agreed, slapping Walker on the shoulder as they turned to leave the waiting room.

"Oh, hey," Walker said, glancing down at the fedora again as they crossed to the elevators, "remind me to get my hat out of the ambulance before they take off, okay?"

# # # # #

The first thing he was aware of was the weight pressing down on every part of his body. He couldn't move; he couldn't even open his eyes. The sounds reaching his ears – mostly beeps and hushed voices – were faint and distorted. His right arm, at his side, felt strangely heavy.

A soft female voice was whispering in his ear but he couldn't make out any of the words. He could feel brief, tender caresses on both sides of his face but he was powerless to respond.

A warm, gentle palm was resting lightly on his forehead when the torpor overtook him once more.

# # # # #

He heard the beeping first, the steady signal that had become so familiar. Its rhythm was strangely comforting. His entire body still felt unnaturally lethargic but he could move this time, he discovered. He bent his knees slightly, then his left elbow. He still couldn't move his right arm for some reason.

He tried opening his eyes; it took several seconds for the lids to cooperate. The room was bright and his pupils rebelled, pulling the lids closed again. He struggled to force them open even a tiny bit, then patiently waited for the pupils to adjust. When he finally managed to force his lids a little wider, he found himself staring at a high very pale green ceiling.

"Hi there," a gentle, surprisingly familiar female voice whispered near his left ear and, with disconcerting difficulty, he turned first his head then his eyes in that direction. A beautiful young woman with short dark hair and a dazzlingly warm smile was staring at him, her usually calm blue eyes clouded with worry.

Steve stared at her for a long second before he could find what was left of his voice. "Jeannie...?"

It was more a question than an observation, and with that one word her heart nearly broke in two. Struggling to keep her fraying emotions in check, Mike's daughter smiled again and nodded. "Yeah, it's me." She reached out to stroke his cheek.

He was staring at her unblinking, as if trying to figure out what was going on. His disorientation was unsettling. "What… you…?" he started then stopped, as if he couldn't find the words.

"What am I doing here?" she finished for him. "Rudy called me." She knew he was in no condition for details at the moment so she changed the subject. "Do you know where you are?"

He continued to stare blankly at her, and it took everything she had not to break down at the look of increasing fear in his eyes. "Me…?" He blinked slowly. "Where…?"

Keeping her hand on his cheek, she gently rubbed the backs of her fingers along his strong jaw, knowing the touch would be reassuring as well as comforting. "You're in a hospital in Sacramento… you and Mike." At the mention of her father's name, she saw his eyes widen but before he could say anything she plowed on, nodding. "He's here too. He's in another room. He's doing o-… he's doing great," she lied, hoping he couldn't see it.

He stared at her uncomprehendingly for a couple of seconds then said thickly. "Hospital…?"

"Unh-humh," she nodded, as her throat constricted in dread and she struggled to control the timbre of her voice, not wanting to scare him. "Both of you, here at the Sacramento Medical Centre. Do you remember what happened?"

His mouth had opened slightly as he stared at her, barely blinking. He very slowly shook his head.

She smiled again, patting his cheek. "That's okay, it'll come back. The doctors said this would probably happen." She winked at him, her hand resting on his face, staring into his familiar green eyes. "Go back to sleep," she suggested gently, stroking his cheek with her thumb, "go to sleep and I promise I'll be here when you wake up again."

Still staring at her face, his eyes slowly closed. When she was sure he was asleep, she got up from the stool and started wearily towards the door, wiping away the tears that had begun to course down her cheeks.

# # # # #

She'd managed to get the crying under control by the time she walked through the waiting room door. Captain Rudy Olsen got up from the chair against the far wall and hurried towards her. He put a comforting hand on her elbow. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

She nodded with a grim smile. "The doctors were right, he doesn't remember anything yet; he barely recognized me."

"Well, they said it might be like that for a day or two… but it'll go away, they said, remember?"

She nodded, trying to smile encouragingly. "I know, but that doesn't make it any easier right now."

"No, I guess it doesn't," the older man said, steering her towards a couple of empty chairs. "Come on, let's sit down." When they did, he asked, "Did you say anything about Mike?"

With another sad nod, she took a deep breath before answering. "I just told him Mike was here in the hospital too and that he was doing great."

"So… you lied to him," Olsen said with a dry snort, and she looked at him with a smirk.

"It wouldn't be the first time," she said with a dry laugh of her own. "He doesn't need to know the truth right now, and maybe, if we're lucky, he'll never have to know, right?"

"Right." He straightened up, looking around the room quickly, before asking, "Say, do you want to go down to the cafeteria and grab a bite to eat?"

She smiled warmly and patted his hand that was resting on the chair arm. "Thanks, but I just want to go see Mike again." She got to her feet.

"I understand," he said compassionately as he stood, staring at her for a long second before he pulled her into a light embrace, kissing her forehead. "You're a rock, Jeannie Stone. I don't know what your father'd do without you. He's a lucky man."

She looked up at him and smiled sadly. "I'm the lucky one, Uncle Rudy, I really am," she said quietly as she turned and walked away.

# # # # #

She walked slowly across the central hub of the Intensive Care Unit, past the nurses' station towards the cubicle on the far side. It was eerily still and uncomfortably quiet when she stepped through the open doorway into the small room. The cacophony of beeps and the electrical hum from the machines and monitors keeping track of vital signs couldn't be heard; they were all standing silently by, as if waiting, except one.

The heart monitor above the bed was on, the thin green line weaving its peaks-and-valleys way across the screen. Jeannie knew what a normal sinus rhythm looked like on an EKG monitor, and this was not normal. There were uncomfortably long gaps between beats. She stared at the green line and inhaled deeply, grateful that, though slow, it remained strong and steady.

She approached the bed quietly and, with a heavy heart, sat on the tall stool near the head. She dropped her hands into her lap with a deep sigh; the urge to kiss her father was almost overwhelming but she knew she couldn't.

It had been over twenty-four hours since she'd arrived at the hospital with Captain Olsen, having made the drive up from San Francisco in near record time. When he had called her in Tucson, she had raced to Phoenix to catch the first flight home. But flights to Sacramento from San Francisco were too few and far between and the captain had decided it would be faster if he just picked her up at the airport and they would make the drive to the state capital together. It had proved a wise and timesaving decision.

Steve was in surgery and her father in ICU when they arrived. She couldn't see either of them right away and had to spend over an hour in a world of dread before someone finally came to talk to them.

The surgical team had had to wait until Steve's body temperature was almost back to normal before the necessary repairs could be made to his forearm. Under the supervision of a nationally recognized orthopedic surgeon, a steel rod had been inserted in the shattered ulna, and the torn muscle and skin repaired with hundreds of small stitches. He would be spending several hours in Recovery until he could be moved to a private room.

Her father, she had been told, was being closely watched in ICU. His core temperature was still very low but rising slowly, which was encouraging they said. But he wasn't conscious and most likely would remain so for the foreseeable future.

She'd been allowed to finally visit him in the small ICU cubicle. As he had been in the ambulance, she had learned, he was completely covered, though now by soft, thick, pale blue medical blankets. The EKG wires disappeared under the blankets near her father's right shoulder. She had stared at the large clear plastic oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth and her bottom lip had begun to quiver. And she couldn't stop the hot tears that were coursing down her cheeks.

Now, twenty-four hours later, she walked back into the small room for the hundredth time, or so it felt. Nothing had changed. She had been told Mike's temperature was continuing to rise, but it was still not high enough to begin any kind of intravenous medication or nourishment. He was still at the stage when any overt attempt at stimulating blood flow, like massage or the application of an electric blanket, could trigger cardiac arrest.

Glancing at the green blips on the heart monitor, encouraged that they seemed to be coming a bit closer together, she slid her hand under the blankets, finding her father's right hand and lacing her fingers through his once again. He felt a little warmer, she thought hopefully, trying to smile through her tears.


	22. Chapter 22

She heard the heavy wooden door open behind her, and knew immediately that it wasn't one of the doctors or nurses. She smiled. "Good morning, Uncle Rudy." Chuckling when she heard him stop moving, knowing he was staring at the back of her head trying to figure out how she knew it was him, she glanced over her shoulder, pulling a nearby plastic chair closer. "Have a seat."

With a shake of his head and a deep but quiet laugh, he dropped into the proffered chair, glancing at her before turning his focus to the bed. "He hasn't woken up yet?"

"Not yet," she answered softly with a mild shrug. "But the nurse said it should be anytime."

Olsen nodded soberly then looked at the young woman beside him. "So, have you figured out how much you're going to tell him if he asks you?"

Her eyes widened momentarily and she inhaled deeply. "No, I haven't. I guess I'm waiting to see how much he knows already, and how much he suspects, I guess." She looked at her father's boss, and old family friend, still not used to seeing him in mufti, and tried to smother her spontaneous smile.

He glanced at her, doing a small double take before asking self-consciously, "What?"

Swallowing the smile but with an approving nod, Jeannie said, "I like the turtleneck, it suits you," under her breath before looking back at the bed. Steve had begun to move his head slightly. Both his visitors quieted down, watching and waiting as the injured young man struggled to consciousness.

Eventually the green eyes opened a bit, staring straight up and blinking slowly. The tip of his tongue appeared, trying to lick his slightly parted lips. He took a deep breath and exhaled sluggishly, closing his eyes again.

Jeannie glanced at Olsen before leaning closer to the bed. "Do you want some water?" she asked softly and they both saw Steve's eyes open again before his head turned very slowly in her direction. She smiled warmly.

He stared at her blankly and she waited, remembering what the doctors had told her about his memory returning slowly, and in stages. His slight frown started to disappear and he said softly, almost with awe, "Jeannie…?"

Still smiling, she nodded, raising her eyebrows. "Yeah, it's still me." She leaned back a little and nodded to her left. "Rudy's here too."

Olsen leaned forward into his detective's field of vision. "How are you doing, Steve?" he asked, realizing the younger man was probably not up to answering him right now but not knowing what else to say in this situation. He punctuated the question with a smile of genuine concern. Jeannie reached out, keeping her hand low so Steve couldn't see, and patted the older man's knee encouragingly.

Steve blinked slowly a couple of times, staring at Jeannie's face. A slight but worried smile started to emerge. "What happened?" he asked shakily, his voice weak.

Knowing he wasn't ready to hear anything near the truth, she asked again, "Would you like some water?"

His tongue darted out again, running over his dry lips. He closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

Jeannie stood, glancing at Olsen. "Rudy, can you raise the bed a bit, please? The nurse said it was okay."

"Oh, ah, sure," the police captain mumbled, getting to his feet and crossing to the end of the bed, looking for a crank. With a gentle laugh, Jeannie pointed at the hand control lying on the far side near the foot of the bed. "Oh, ha," he chuckled as he picked it up, searching for the appropriate button.

She had picked up the water glass and filled it from the pitcher on the side table then took the paper off a bendable straw. She waited while the bed rose slowly. Olsen's eyes were snapping back and forth from the bed to her; she nodded and he released the button.

Steve looked towards her as she leaned forward and held the glass for him. His badly injured right arm, in a removable cast, had been placed in a sling and was now immobile, strapped tightly to his chest. He reached out with his left hand for the glass but she held it firmly, not sure he was really strong enough to hold its weight, minimal as it was. He wrapped his hand around hers and guided the straw to his mouth.

Putting the glass back down on the table, she smiled as she sat, reaching out to take his left hand. The green eyes that met hers were more focused than before, she noted with relief. She opened her mouth to ask him how he was feeling, knowing that now was the time to do it, when Olsen beat her to it.

"So how're ya doing, Steve?" came the concerned voice from over her shoulder and she squeezed Steve's hand in mild surprise as she glanced up at the older man.

The green eyes slid slowly from her face to Olsen's and he almost smiled. "I don't know, Rudy… sorta… weak, I guess. And dizzy."

Olsen nodded, frowning. "Yeah, I bet you are."

Steve seemed to think of something and his focus returned to Jeannie, his brows furrowing in worry. "Mike…" he breathed, "where's Mike?"

Her grip on his hand tightened; she was prepared for this moment, or so she hoped.

"He's here… in the hospital," she smiled encouragingly, "in another room. He's asleep, like you were."

"He got shot…"

She nodded. "Umh-humh, like you did. He's gonna be okay too… They just have to keep him in another room for awhile…" She wasn't exactly lying, she reasoned to herself, just omitting some of the finer details.

He was staring at her, as if trying to discern if she was telling him the truth and telling him everything. But in reality he was too exhausted to question, and too desperate not to cling to her reassuring words. He wrapped his fingers around hers as tightly as he could.

"Listen, ah, son," Olsen said quietly, leaning forward and putting a hand lightly on Steve's leg, "are you able to remember anything about what happened?"

Jeannie knew he had shifted into cop mode, and that the question was necessary, but she couldn't stop her heart from leaping into her throat.

Steve's attention shifted to his captain, his focus turning slightly inward, as if he was trying to remember. After several seconds, he started to nod almost imperceptibly. "Yeah… yeah, I think so…"

It was becoming plain to both of them that he was getting stronger, both mentally and physically, in tiny increments even as they watched.

His brow furrowed again, deeper, and his full attention was now internal. "We were ambushed…" he began quietly, "at the third place… the third ranch… The fog, it was so thick… but we both wanted to get there." He looked up suddenly, his head leaving the pillow slightly. "Rudy, we found it… where they killed Stan Kowalczyk. We found it."

Olsen was nodding with a confirming nod. "We know. The second ranch. They sent some guys there and they found it. Forensics has already been through it and they're analyzing everything as we speak."

Steve's head was bobbing, his eyes unfocusing again as he absorbed this new information. "Good," he whispered, "good." He paused and swallowed heavily, allowing his head to drop back onto the pillow, as if trying to organize his thoughts, get his recollections in the proper order. "It was dark when we got there… and before we could even get out of the car… they shot at us…" He winced at the memory, closing his eyes. He took several long deep breaths.

Jeannie squeezed his hand a little harder and Rudy patted his leg.

"We got hit," he said moments later, taking another ragged breath as he opened his eyes and looked down at his right arm strapped across his chest. "The car was already in Reverse and we just… got out of there... I just remember the pain… and driving… blindly… until we found a road and went down it… until we couldn't go any further…"

He closed his eyes again, his head sinking even deeper into the pillow. What little strength he had before was gone. Jeannie looked over her shoulder at Olsen, both suddenly unsure if he should be pressured any further.

That decision was appropriated from them when the door opened swiftly and a harried-looking, bald, barrel-chested, middle-aged doctor charged into the room. "Ah, Mr. Keller," he said briskly, striding to the foot of the bed, glancing at the two visitors with a brisk nod, "it's good to see you… awake." His light tone contrasted sharply with his no-nonsense appearance and Jeannie and Olsen exchanged slightly startled looks.

Steve slowly opened his eyes, staring at this new arrival with no sign of recognition.

"Ah yes, we haven't met – well, you haven't met me. I'm Doctor Conrad. I operated on your arm." His rapid, staccato delivery was comically jarring, and if it wasn't for the seriousness of the setting, Jeannie was sure she would have burst out laughing. Getting no response from his patient, Conrad turned to the obvious visitors, sticking his hand out. "Doctor Conrad," he introduced himself again.

Olsen, who was closer, got to his feet to shake the doctor's hand. "Ah, Captain Olsen. I'm, ah, well, I guess I'm his boss," he offered, nodding towards the bed.

"Ah, the San Francisco Police Department, am I right?" Conrad's eyes seemed to light up.

"Yes, that's right," Olsen answered almost warily, a little overwhelmed by the energy emanating from the large man with the huge personality.

Conrad's eyes left Olsen as he withdrew his hand and his attention turned to Jeannie. "Doctor Conrad," he introduced himself again, extending his hand once more.

Prepared, Jeannie had remained seated but took his hand. "Jeannie Stone. I'm Steve's partner's daughter."

The surgeon's face clouded for a moment then he smiled in recognition. "Ah, yes, the lieutenant in ICU. How is he doing?"

Jeannie's throat tightened and she resisted the urge to glance at Steve, hoping he was too tired to be paying full attention. She could feel Olsen's eyes on her and knew he was thinking the same thing. She found a broad grin. "He's doing great, thank you for asking."

"That's good to hear," Conrad nodded then turned his attention back to Steve, who was silently following his every move. "Ah, if you don't mind…?" he asked, gesturing at his patient, and with an "Oh, sorry," Jeannie got up and moved the stool so he could get closer to the bed.

"We'll wait in the hallway until you're finished," Olsen said to the doctor, taking Jeannie by the elbow and steering her to the door.

"Thank you, I won't be long," Conrad called over his shoulder as they disappeared into the corridor.

"Holy hell, he's a force of nature, isn't he?" Olsen chuckled dryly as he faced Jeannie in the hallway near the door.

"Do you think Steve heard what he said?" Jeannie asked, crossing her arms, her brow furrowed with worry.

The older man shrugged. "I don't know. I was watching him and I didn't see any reaction but I just don't know."

"Yeah," she exhaled heavily. "I just don't want to worry him… he doesn't need anything else right now except to concentrate on getting better."

"Well, they did tell us it's gonna be slow but sure, right? I don't know about you, but I think he's a hell of lot better now than he was yesterday, right?"

Jeannie almost smiled; she couldn't tell if Olsen's words of reassurance were meant for her or for himself. _Probably both,_ she thought warmly. She nodded. "Yeah, I think he's doing a lot better too."

The wooden door opened and Conrad exited the room with as much energy as he had entered. He stopped abruptly when he saw them. "Ah, you can go back in if you like. His arm is doing very well. I'm pleased with how it's coming." He stared at them as if waiting for a response and when one wasn't immediately forthcoming, he nodded briskly with an "Ah," then turned and strode away.

Jeannie and Olsen watched him go then turned to each other with small smiles. Olsen pushed the door open and Jeannie preceded him into the room. As she approached the bed, Steve opened his eyes and looked at her. He seemed different.

"Mike isn't doing very well, is he?"


	23. Chapter 23

Jeannie took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving Steve's. She knew she couldn't lie; he knew her too well, and she wasn't that good at it, especially when it was him. She looked away briefly before answering. "No, he's not." When his eyes began to close, she continued quickly, "But he's still fighting, Steve, and the doctors keep telling us he's doing as well as can be expected and he's got a better than good chance." She watched as her father's partner squeezed his eyes tightly shut, biting his bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

She heard Olsen move the stool to behind her and she sat, her eyes not leaving the young man in the bed who was struggling with his emotions. She saw him swallow before inhaling raggedly through his open mouth. "Is it the bullet in his chest?"

She shook her head. "No… no," she said simply, not wanting to tell him that Mike had still not been x-rayed and they had no idea where the bullet was lodged. In reality, she didn't want to have to tell him anything about his partner, but knew now she had no choice. "Mike has hypothermia, like you did… only his is a little worse."

He had opened his eyes and was staring at her, waiting as she found the right words.

"What do you mean 'worse'?

She tried to smile optimistically. "Both of you were out in that cold fog for a long time… that's why they couldn't operate on your arm right away. They had to warm you up… and it takes awhile. It's not something they can do quickly."

Steve's frown of worry got deeper. "But I'm awake now… why isn't he?"

Jeannie hesitated for a split second, trying to put some confidence in her tone. "His body temperature was a lot lower than yours when you both were found… and so it's taking longer for him to warm up, that's all."

The young cop's eyes left her face briefly to focus just above her head and she knew Olsen was standing behind her. When they returned to her face again, he asked slowly, as if trying to figure out the answer himself, "Why would his temperature be lower than mine? We were in the car together."

Knowing that she needed to lie to help him get through this moment, this day, this crisis, she shook her head, shrugged… and lied. "I don't know… maybe because he's older than you? I don't know…"

His green eyes bored into her blue ones, looking for any sign that she wasn't being completely truthful with him and, finding none, he turned to face the ceiling and closed his eyes. He took several deep breaths then she saw his jaw tense; he knew he wasn't being told the whole story but he also knew he had been told all he would be for the moment.

He took another deep breath then asked quietly, still looking at the ceiling. "Can I see him?"

Not surprised by the request, Jeannie leaned forward to put her hand on his shoulder. "No," she said gently, shaking her head faintly, "I'm sorry… I'm the only one that's allowed in to see him right now…"

Steve squeezed his eyes tightly shut and bit his upper lip. He swallowed heavily before he whispered, "How bad is he?"

She hesitated, not really sure how much she should tell him but not wanting to continue lying. "His temperature is getting higher… it's slow but it's going up… and then they'll be able to really start to help him…"

His eyes opened and his head turned slowly towards her on the pillow. "Help him…?"

She smiled with a sad confidence. "Then they'll be able to start an IV and then x-ray him –"

"X-ray?" Steve asked quickly, jumping on the word.

She nodded. "They can't do anything like that till his temperature is almost back to normal, like you." She shrugged sadly. "Hypothermia is a tricky thing. There's a lot they can't do… they just have to let him warm up on his own…" Her fingers dug into his shoulder and her bottom lip trembled.

He put his left hand over hers and squeezed, staring at her. He blinked slowly then allowed the corners of his lips to curl slightly. "I think he needs you right now a lot more than I do," he said softly. The words sounded dismissive, but she knew they weren't.

She smiled, tears springing to her eyes, and nodded. Slipping her hand out from under his, she got to her feet. Rudy was already waiting for her at the door. As she turned to leave the room, she heard Steve whisper, his voice strained, "Tell him I love him, okay?"

# # # # #

She left Rudy in the main floor waiting room and took the stairs down two flights to the ICU. She opened one half of the double glass doors and entered the large, round open-concept room with the cubicles built into the walls around the central nurses' station.

She was halfway across the hub when she noticed the activity going on in her father's room and increased her pace, trying not to run. She almost slid to a stop at the open doorway, grabbing the frame.

There were three people standing around Mike's bed – a doctor she didn't recognize and two nurses she did. All three turned towards her reflexively, and they all smiled.

"You must be Mr. Stone's daughter," the stocky, grey-haired, bespectacled doctor chuckled warmly, turning his attention back to the bed with a sideways nod of his head and a friendly, "Come on in."

Her eyes, which had been riveted on the doctor's face, now traveled to the bed as she took several steps into the small room. She caught her breath slightly, a hand going to her mouth. Though the oxygen mask remained, the heavy towels that had been covering her father's head had been removed and, for the first time since she'd arrived in Sacramento, she could see his face.

Her right hand darted out, almost of its own volition, to stroke his cheek but she stopped herself, glancing at the nurse beside her in apology.

"No no," the nurse said quickly and encouragingly, "it's okay, you can touch him."

She laid her hand lightly on his forehead, staring at his closed eyes, wanting so much for him to respond to her touch, though she knew he wouldn't. But he didn't feel as cold as she was expecting and she looked up at the doctor, who was standing on the far side of the bed.

He had uncovered Mike's right arm and was preparing to insert an IV catheter into the back of his hand. One of the nurses was assisting him while the other was moving an IV stand into place and hanging a bag of clear fluid.

The doctor glanced up at her and smiled. "You look surprised, my dear," he said gallantly with a warm chuckle. "Your dad is doing a lot better, as you can see. So much so that we can now start to give him fluids, which he sorely needs, I'm afraid." He glanced at his patient's mask-covered face then back to Jeannie before concentrating on his task once again.

"He doesn't feel cold," she said quietly, almost in awe, and the nurse on the other side of the bed smiled and nodded.

"His temperature is up to 95.9. So now we can start to do more to help him the rest of the way."

As she spoke, a younger nurse arrived in the doorway with a large cardboard box on a trolley. Jeannie stepped back as the trolley was pushed close to the bed and, as she watched, the blankets covering her father were pulled down to his waist. She flinched when she saw the large gauze bandage covering the front of his left shoulder, a grim reminder of the bullet that was still lodged somewhere in his chest.

The doctor, finished with the catheter, began to connect the IV line. The younger nurse opened the cardboard box and smiled at the others. "Fresh out of the dryer," she announced as she removed a large, folded white towel and handed it to one of her colleagues. The nurse lifted the blanket at Mike's waist and laid the warm towel over his lower stomach and groin, then placed the blanket back down.

The next towel was placed over the middle of his torso and wrapped around both sides. A third towel covered his upper chest, left arm and shoulder, and tucked around his right ribcage. Then the blankets were pulled back up to his chin, leaving his right arm uncovered.

They took a step back from the bed. As the younger nurse wheeled the trolley with the now empty cardboard box out of the room, the doctor looked at Jeannie. "Sorry, we had to get everything done fast so we could cover him up again." He nodded at the two nurses who, smiling encouragingly at the worried young woman, left the room.

"Jeannie, is it?" the doctor asked.

"Ah, yes," she stammered, trying to collect her thoughts; so much had happened so quickly. "Jeannie, yes," she confirmed, glancing at his nametag; Dr. Peter Warren, it read.

"Good. Well, as you can probably tell, your Dad is doing very well, all things considered. He still has a way to go, of course, but his temperature is almost back to normal and what we've done just now," he pointed towards the bed, "with the IV and those warm and toasty towels," he chuckled, "they're going to go a long way towards getting his temperature back to normal."

She was staring at her father's mask-covered face, but now with hope rather than despair, a look that was not lost on the veteran doctor. She swallowed, suddenly unsure of the strength of her voice. "When will he wake up?" she asked hesitantly, not taking her eyes from the bed.

"Well, probably not for awhile yet; his body is going to dictate that. He could wake up in the next couple of hours or it could take another day. Everybody's different. But don't you worry yourself, he's going to wake up, I'll guarantee it."

She was nodding, her brow still furrowed. "Will he have, ah," she paused and cleared her throat lightly, "will he have any brain damage?" From the corner of her eye she could see him start to shake his head before he spoke and she closed her eyes in relief.

"No, he shouldn't. I would doubt it very much. His hypothermia was bad, but he was still in the top percentile of people who make a full and complete recovery." He paused to let this sink in. "He seems to me like a man who looks after himself; he's in good shape for his age, isn't he?"

She nodded proudly, still not taking her eyes from the bed. "He's been athletic his whole life; he plays basketball. Coaches it too."

"I'm not surprised," Warren said with a chuckle. "Well, that bodes well for him. He'll probably feel 'under the weather' for a few weeks as his body recovers, but that's normal and we'll make sure he knows that so he doesn't worry."

She finally turned to look into his soft brown eyes. "What about the bullet in his chest?"

Warren's eyebrows rose. "Well, if all goes well, we'll take him for an x-ray tomorrow morning, then it'll be up to the surgeons. They may want to go in right away or they may want to wait till he's a little stronger; it'll depend on where the bullet ended up." He paused and tilted his head with a small shrug. "And they might even decide to leave it where it is if it isn't doing any harm."

He started for the door. "Stay as long as you like, my dear, and you might want to start talking to him. I'm pretty sure he knows you're here." And with a wink, he was gone.

Jeannie looked back at the bed. Slowly she pulled the tall stool that had been pushed against the wall back to the right side of the bed and she sat. Carefully, avoiding the catheter, she picked up her father's right hand, brought it to her face and kissed the backs of his fingers.

"Hi, Daddy," she began conversationally. "You're in a hospital in Sacramento. You and Steve both. I don't know if you remember, but you were ambushed and shot a few days ago. Both of you. Steve's going to be fine too… he's in another room right now but you'll be able to see him soon…"

She talked to him for over an hour.


	24. Chapter 24

There was a light rap on the door then nothing. Steve opened his eyes slowly; he thought he'd heard something but wasn't quite sure. He started to close his eyes when he heard it again, this time a little louder. He raised his head off the pillow and looked at the door. "Come in," he said as loudly as he could.

The heavy wooden door was pushed open almost tentatively and a large blond man with a buzz cut, wearing jeans and a denim workshirt under a black peacoat, stepped tentatively into the room, a black baseball cap in his hand. He smiled as his eyes found the bed. "Ah, Inspector Keller?"

Frowning, Steve nodded. "Yeah."

Letting the door close behind him, the newcomer stepped deeper into the room. "They, ah, they told me you were allowed to have a visitor, so… do you mind?" he asked hesitantly, receiving another nod. "Ah, we really haven't met," he snorted with an almost self-conscious smile, "uh, I'm, ah, Sergeant Dean Walker, Vacaville PD. I was the guy you were talking to on the radio. And my partner and I were the ones that found you and your partner the other day."

His eyebrows rising in surprise, Steve tried to push himself up.

"Oh, ah, let me help you with that," Walker said, crossing quickly to the bed and picking up the remote control pad. He thumbed the button and the bed started to rise, staring at Steve until the younger man nodded. With a grim smile of acknowledgement, he dropped the remote back on the bed.

"I, ah, I still don't know how you found us," Steve said with a shake of his head, somewhat bewildered. "I mean, ah, how you actually found us. I can't remember very much."

"I'm not surprised. You were both pretty out of it," Walker nodded, suddenly grinning. He gestured towards the guest chair, eyebrows raised. "May I?"

Steve followed the move. "Oh, uh, please…"

Nodding his thanks, Walker grabbed one of the plastic chairs and brought it closer to the bed. He took off the pea coat and dropped it over the back of the chair before he sat then he leaned forward and smiled. "You're looking pretty good, all things considered," he said, sounding very relieved. "We, ah, well, we didn't get to hang around here long enough the other day to see how you and Mike were doing…"

"I'm, ah, I'm doing fine, thanks." He looked down at his heavily bandaged right arm. "They had to put a steel rod in my forearm and dozens of stitches, but they tell me I'm going to have full use of it… got off lucky, I guess."

Walker was nodding. "That's good. I mean, god, you guys were hard to find. I'm just glad we got to you in time, both of you."

"How _did_ you find us?"

The big blond cop smiled. "Well, a lotta bullshit luck was involved, I can tell you that. We weren't making too much progress in that damn fog… but I don't have to tell you guys that, right?" He snorted a short laugh. "We were getting closer but we had no idea where that road was you guys went down. But luckily someone showed up that did."

Relaxing, he sat back on the flimsy plastic chair and crossed his legs, putting his ball cap on his knee.

"Chief Powell had sent an ambulance down there to meet up with us – an ambulance from here as a matter of fact. And one of those guys knew that area really well; he'd even made some calls down there. He knew that small road you were on. Then it just became a matter of getting to you in time." He paused and shook his head in awe. "And we did."

Steve's stare hadn't left the sergeant's face. "I'm glad you did." He looked away and exhaled loudly. "There's, ah, there's a lot of that night that I don't remember… except the pain and that damn cold…" he said softly.

With a grim, closed-mouth smile, Walker nodded sympathetically. "We were lucky that night, all of us. I mean, if those other guys hadn't arrived when they did – the State guys? – we'd a never found Mike in time, I'm pretty sure of that."

Steve's eyes snapped back to Walker's face. "What do you mean 'found Mike'?" he asked sharply. "He was in the car, wasn't he?"

Walker had begun to shake his head before the inspector had finished the question. "No, no – he was –" he began quickly before he stopped, suddenly realizing that maybe he had let something slip that he shouldn't have. It was an assumption that was confirmed when Steve tried to sit up a little straighter, his green eyes boring into the VPD sergeant.

"He was where?" The question was short, pointed and couldn't be ignored.

Walker closed his eyes and uncrossed his legs, letting the hat fall to the floor. Sighing loudly, he dropped his head, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. "Damn it, I'm sorry, Steve… I thought you must have known…" He raised his head slowly to see the green eyes staring at him.

"Where was he?" Steve asked again and Walker knew he was no longer talking to an injured colleague but a seasoned, sharp detective.

Exhaling loudly, Walker straightened up. "About a little less than an hour before we found your car, he radioed me. He was… he was a little frantic. You'd lost consciousness and he said you felt hot. He didn't know what to do. I told him to keep you warm and that we would be there soon and we were going to start blasting our siren in short bursts so we could hone in on where you were. We wanted him to tell us when he could start to hear it."

He dropped his eyes slightly and stared at the floor. "But when I called him, I don't know, about ten, fifteen minutes later… he didn't answer. We thought maybe your battery had finally died… or he'd just passed out, like you did." He hesitated and his voice got softer. "When we finally found your car, he wasn't in it. He'd left the blanket wrapped around you… he even closed the door…"

He looked up; Steve was still staring at him. "Chris and I started looking for him right away but we couldn't find him. We knew he couldn't've gotten far, but it was so dark and that damn fog… Then the other guys showed up…" His gaze had dropped to the floor again and his voice faded.

"How long was he out of the car?" Steve asked eventually.

Walker didn't look up. "We figured about an hour…" He could hear the younger man's head hit the pillow, and when he looked up Steve was facing the ceiling with his eyes closed. He stared silently at the younger man's profile for several seconds, then nodded to himself; if he'd come this far, he might as well go all the way. "We, ah, we couldn't find a pulse when we found him… and he was so cold… But they found a pulse in the ambulance…" He paused and cleared his throat slightly.

Steve didn't move.

"One of the medics told me that hypothermia can cause… 'muddled thinking', they call it. He probably didn't even know where he was or what he was doing… just that he needed to get help and get it fast… He probably forgot all about me telling him we wanted him to let us know when he could hear the siren…" He stopped, watching the young man on the bed, not sure if he should continue talking or not.

Steve opened his eyes, blinking slowly as he stared at the ceiling. His breaths were long and deep and unsteady.

# # # # #

Jeannie dropped quickly into the chair on the other side of table; Rudy Olsen, his hands around a white coffee mug, his mind elsewhere, jumped slightly with a startled grunt.

"Sorry," she apologized quickly, "but I want to get to Steve's room as soon as I can. I've got good news, finally." Her eyes were bright and her smile genuine. She reached across the table and put a hand on his forearm. "Mike's doing a lot better. As a matter of fact, they think he might even wake up in the next few hours, fingers crossed," she continued, raising her other hand with its entwined digits.

A smile split the older man's face and he took a hand off the mug to place it over hers on his arm. He exhaled with theatricality and briefly closed his eyes. "Now that's the news I've been waiting to hear," he breathed with relief as he patted her hand.

She nodded enthusiastically. "His temperature has gone up a lot – he's still a couple of degrees from normal – but the doctor was really pleased, and they've put him on an IV… finally… and they're warming him with hot towels – which they heat in the dryer, can you believe that…?" she snorted in amazement, tilting her head with a shrug, "and I sat with him and talked to him for the past… oh, I don't know, hour or so… and his hand was warm…"

Her words were coming so fast, he was having a hard time understanding them all, but he knew how relieved and excited she was and he watched her with bemused affection. When she finally stopped to take a breath, he ventured quietly, "And you're on your way to tell Steve?"

"Oh god yes," she said, squeezing his arm, her brow suddenly furrowing. "I'm worried about him. He knows I'm keeping things from him, things about Mike, and I hate lying to him, but I don't think I have much choice right now, do I? I mean, if I tell him what really happened – what Chief Powell told us – he's gonna blame himself for Mike leaving the car. And no matter what I say… what either of us says… he's not going to change his mind, I just know it."

"Yes, he can be just as stubborn as your father, can't he?"

Jeannie smiled in spite of herself. "Yes, he can. Maybe that's one of the reasons they get along so well. And he can carry the burden of guilt just like Mike does too. And I just know that he's not going to believe a word I say about Mike getting better until he sees him himself, but that's not going to happen anytime soon 'cause Mike's not going anywhere and I don't think they want Steve going anywhere either for awhile."

She stared straight ahead, her eyes glazing over slightly as her focus turned inward, mulling the situation over in her mind.

"You know," Olsen started slowly, "he's gonna find out about what happened sooner or later… So which is better – sooner? Or later?"

She sighed as her eyes met his evenly. "Good question." She smiled as she started to get to her feet. "I think I'll take a page out of my dad's playbook, as he says, and play it by ear."

Olsen nodded in agreement. "I think that's a great idea."

"You gonna stay here?" she asked as she started to turn away.

"I'm gonna see if they'll let me use the phone again so I can call the office, but yeah, I'll be here or in the waiting room. Don't worry about me. Take your time. I'll find you."

"Great," she said then smiled beseechingly. "Um, Uncle Rudy, I need you to do me a big favor." She bit her bottom lip.

His eyes narrowed at the sound of his name and he knew that tone of voice very well; it was one his own daughters used on him. He shook his head and chuckled. "What do you need?" he asked with a heavy manufactured sigh.

"Great." She took a piece of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to him. He opened it, read it and looked up at her questioningly. "Can you do that?" she asked.

He started to nod slowly. "Yeah, yeah, I can do this."

"Wonderful. Thank you so much." She took a couple of steps towards him and leaned over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad you're here," she whispered in his ear.

He smiled up at her. "I'm glad I'm here too."

# # # # #

Walker slowly reached down to pick his hat off the floor then quietly got to his feet.

Steve hadn't moved; he was still staring at the ceiling. The Vacaville cop took a step back and silently lifted his coat off the chair, folding it over his arm. As noiselessly as possible he crossed the room to the door then looked back at the bed.

He felt guilty… and awful. He had no intention of upsetting the younger man when he entered the room, but he had, and now there was nothing he could do about it. But he knew only too well how close partners can become, about how they feel responsible for each other, about how they would lay down their lives for each other.

He wasn't going to leave the hospital, he decided, but he wanted to give the younger man space for the moment. And when the time was right, he would come back and hopefully they would talk… about friendship, about partners, about sacrifice. It was a discussion he hoped would do them both good.

He reached for the handle of the heavy wooden door, pulling it open then stopping abruptly. A pretty, dark-haired young woman was standing in the hallway and she looked up at him with a surprised wariness.


	25. Chapter 25

Taking advantage of the young woman's confusion and, with a quick backwards glance towards the bed, Walker took a step out into the corridor, letting the heavy wooden door close behind him. Meeting her bewildered stare evenly, and keeping his voice low, he asked, "Are you…?" He pointed back towards the hospital room door.

Blinking rapidly, Jeannie shook her head quickly. "Ah, no… no, I'm his partner's daughter."

Walker's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You're Mike's daughter?"

Frowning, Jeannie's head went back slightly. "You know my father?"

Shaking his head, the tall blond man chuckled. "Um, I'm sorry, I, uh, my name is Dean Walker. I'm a sergeant with the Vacaville Police Department… and one of the guys who found Steve and your dad the other night."

"Oh," she blurted, eyes widening. "Oh my god, am I glad to meet you, I can't thank you enough." She reached out to shake his hand.

He took hers gently, at the same time glancing once more over his shoulder at the door and then back to her, bending slightly to whisper, "Look, ah, I'd like to talk to you, if that's okay, but, ah… could we move down the hall a little…?" He bobbled his head and grimaced awkwardly.

She glanced at the door with another frown then looked at him and smiled. "Ah, sure… sure…" She led him several yards down the wide hall to a spot just beyond the nurses station where they were out of everyone's way.

"How's your Dad doing?" he asked when they stopped, turning to her.

She smiled. "He's doing a lot better, thanks. He's not awake yet but they said it's just a matter of hours."

Walker frowned. "You mean he's been unconscious since we got him here?" His tone was both shocked and concerned.

Jeannie nodded, raising her eyebrows. "His temperature was really low," she said, and he nodded knowingly, "and they couldn't do anything too invasive to raise it or he could have gone into cardiac arrest. So they just had to keep him covered and warm and let it happen naturally."

He inhaled deeply, letting it out in a rush. "God, I didn't know. That explains it, I guess," he said almost under his breath.

"That explains what?" she asked hesitantly.

He looked at her with a small almost apologetic smile. "I, uh, I'm assuming Steve didn't know about Mike, uh…?" He shrugged.

Jeannie frowned. "Didn't know…?" she echoed quietly and he looked at her guiltily.

"He asked how we found them the other night and, ah… well, I told him… and I told him about how hard it was to find Mike – um, sorry, your father –"

"It's okay," she interrupted gently, putting a hand on his arm, "I call him Mike too."

He flashed a quick smile, as if he wasn't completely surprised. "To, ah, to find Mike in the dark and the fog… I, ah, I didn't realize that he didn't know that your father wasn't in the car…"

Jeannie was nodding slowly, sympathetically.

"He, ah… well, he went all silent on me…" The big cop was looking down, turning the baseball cap in his hands.

"He tuned you out?"

Walker's head came up, looking guilty and apologetic. "Yeah… yeah, it was like he was trying to… I don't know, process what I was telling him…"

"And probably wondering why none of us had told him what happened?" She put a comforting hand on his arm. "Don't worry about it. It was going to happen sooner or later," she smiled to herself, thinking of what Olsen had just said, "and his response would've been the same then too."

"I am so sorry…"

"Don't be sorry," she said quickly. "The cat's out of the bag and no one's going to be able to put it back in. But I know Steve really well… he'll get over it, especially when he sees that Mike is going to be just fine."

Walker nodded gratefully. "How, ah, how long have they been partners?"

"Five years."

He chuckled knowingly. "That's a long time." He tilted his head, his focus turning inward and, suddenly and unexpectedly, he chuckled quietly under his breath.

Frowning with curiosity, she asked softly, "What?"

He snorted gently. "I was just thinking, you know, most of us in law enforcement… just like in the military… we know what it's like to have a partner you have to depend on for your very life; and we all know, or hope we know, that that partner will be there for you when you really need him, will actually lay down his life for you… Luckily there's not too many of us who have had to experience that… but I think Steve does now… and I think it's gonna change him… I think it can't help but change him…"

Jeannie, who had been frowning as she listened, swallowed heavily before asking, "Change him how, do you think?"

Walker shook his head with a soft shrug. "Who knows… I don't even think he'll know or even realize it… but it has to… wouldn't you think?" When she didn't answer right away, he asked quietly, "Isn't that the reason you didn't tell him in the first place?"

Exhaling loudly, she looked down, shaking her head slightly as she smiled wistfully. "You're a very perceptive man, Sergeant Walker."

He grinned and chuckled. "And you're a very insightful and compassionate young woman. And I'll tell your dad that when I finally meet him."

Her smile turned into a grin. "Let's hope that's going to be sooner than we think, right?"

He nodded with a warm laugh. "Listen, ah, I'm not going anywhere right now. I want to talk to Steve again before I leave, make sure he's… well, that things are okay between us. I really didn't mean to blindside him and I want him to know that. So I'm, ah, I'm just going to head down to the cafeteria and grab a coffee or two and… well, I'll see how it goes with you in there," he nodded over his shoulder in the direction of Steve's room. "How does that sound?"

With her own soft laugh, she shook her head. "That sounds like a good idea to me." She glanced down the hallway and took a deep breath.

"So, ah, what are you going to say to him?" Walker asked gently.

She smiled knowingly. "What's that phrase they use in football – _the best defense is a good offense?_ Well, that's what I'm gonna do."

He inclined his head, looking at her with surprise and respect. "Is that gonna work?"

Her smile got a little wider. "It always works on my father… the advantage of being a woman," she laughed as she started down the corridor, feeling his approving and respect-filled eyes following her every step.

# # # # #

She opened the door with authority and strode straight up to the bed. He was still staring at the ceiling but she knew he was aware of her presence. She waited patiently until he decided to turn his head in her direction.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was low, strong and accusatory.

"To what end?" she countered forcefully and saw his eyes widen slightly. "So that you could try to go down to ICU and sit beside him and hold his hand twenty-four hours a day? And with that?" She nodded towards his heavily bandaged right arm under the heavy blanket. "You couldn't move for the first day you were in here your temperature was so low; you had a major operation where they put a rod in your arm and god knows how many stitches; and they're still monitoring you closely for any sign of infection!" Her voice rose higher the further she got into the litany and by the end she was almost shouting.

"And that would've been just wonderful, wouldn't it?" Her tone dripped sarcasm. "Then you wouldn't be in here, re-cov-er-ing," she dragged the word out, enunciating each syllable, "you'd be in the room beside him, hooked up to monitors and drips and god knows what else… and we'd be standing over your bed, wringing our hands over you. Is that what you wanted?"

His angry stare had melted away during her diatribe and he was looking at her now like a whipped puppy. When she stopped to take a breath and gather her thoughts, he asked quietly, but with genuine concern, "Is that what you've been doing? Standing over Mike's bed and wringing your hands?"

Her eyebrows shot up and she froze momentarily, as if she was trying to figure out what he meant. Then she screwed her features up and snapped, "No… of course not. Dear god, it's a figure of speech." She stopped herself, then smiled and chuckled warmly, realizing he was not his usual self. She reached out to lay a hand on his cheek and sighed heavily. "Steve, you've gotta believe me, I didn't want you to find out about Mike like this… but you have to know why I did it, right? You have to know we all wanted you to get stronger before you had to start worrying about Mike."

He was staring at her soberly but he remained silent. Then she smiled and his heart skipped a beat.

"Anyway, before this gets really out of hand," she chuckled, "Mike's doing great, his temperature's gone way up in the last little while and they think he's gonna wake up in the next few hours. They've started to warm him artificially now and he's on an IV, and they've scheduled him for an x-ray tomorrow morning." Her hand, which was hovering near the pillow, settled on his forehead and she tenderly pushed his hair back. "So," she sighed with a warm and relieved laugh, "is that what you wanted to hear?"

Still looking at her without expression, he asked, "You're not lying to me, are you?"

Her smile disappeared; she knew he was serious. She shook her head slowly. "No… no, Smiley, I'm not." She waited for his reaction; it wasn't long in coming.

His brow furrowed and his lips parted slightly. "Wha…?"

Her hand sliding down from his forehead to lovingly pat his cheek, she chuckled. "I heard Mike call you that once… it's a step up from Buddy Boy, isn't it?" The infectious sound of her laughter filled the room and, after looking at her in annoyance for a couple of long seconds, he began to smile.

"He's really getting better?" he asked, the smile wavering.

Nodding enthusiastically, she took a step back from the bed and sat in the chair Walker had vacated. "He really is. He's gonna be okay, but it's gonna take awhile… just like you."

Steve looked down at the bulge in the blanket over his arm and sighed. "Yeah."

Jeannie nodded towards him with her chin. "How is it feeling?"

"Well, my fingers are still really swollen," he told her, pulling down the sheet and blanket to expose the sling, his hand elevated up near his throat. She got up and stood over the bed, trying not to gasp when she caught sight of his grossly enlarged, yellowish fingers.

"Wow… ah, do they hurt?" she asked, wincing slightly.

He wiggled them a bit. "Not really. I mean, I can feel the pressure from the swelling but they don't actually hurt. I can move them all and they're warm and I don't have any pins and needles, so they keep telling me I'm doing fine." He looked up at her and shrugged. "Looks god-awful though, doesn't it?" It was an observation, not self-pity.

"Well, it ain't pretty," she said with a snort and he chuckled as well. "Hey, ah," she started casually, "Sergeant Walker, ah… he, ah, he feels bad about telling you about, you know, Mike not being in the car and all that… He didn't know, Steve, and he's –"

"I know," he cut her off, looking away. "I know. I, ah, I just wasn't ready to hear it, I guess… I owe him an apology." He looked back at her again with a small guilty smile.

She shook her head. "No, you don't. I had a good talk with him. He wants to apologize to you, even though I don't think he should," she could see Steve shaking his head in agreement and frowning as he turned to look at the ceiling, "and he wants to talk to you again. About, you know, partners and stuff like that. You okay with that?"

Not taking his head off the pillow, he turned to her and smiled. "I would like that a lot."

# # # # #

Down in a small cubicle in ICU, alone amidst the beeps and hums of the machinery that was recording every possible sign of life, Mike Stone opened his eyes.


	26. Chapter 26

As the nurse walked into the ICU cubicle to check the IV drip, her eyes instinctively passed over all the monitors, noting with satisfaction that the blips on the heart monitor were finally coming closer together. As she approached the IV pole on the far side of the bed, she glanced at her patient's face, at the oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth.

She froze momentarily in surprise; above the mask his eyes were open. She leaned over the bed into his field of vision. "Mr. Stone…? Mr. Stone, can you hear me?" There was no response except a slow natural blink. "Mr. Stone, if you can hear me, blink slower." She waited as he closed his eyes and kept them closed for a full second before opening them again.

She smiled happily, straightening up. "That's very good, Mr. Stone." She patted his chest through the blanket. "I'm going to page Dr. Warren." She hurried out of the room to the nurses station.

# # # # #

"So you're going to be okay now?" she asked with raised eyebrows, sounding very much like a mother questioning a child who had just wound up a temper tantrum.

With a heavy, dramatic sigh and a smirk, Steve nodded. "Yes, I'm fine."

She pursed her lips. "'Fine' fine or Mike 'fine'?"

He chuckled. "'Fine' fine, I swear."

She joined in the laugh, reaching out to touch his cheek tenderly again. "Listen, I want to head down to ICU and check up on Mike again. You want me to send Sergeant Walker back in? I'm pretty sure he's down in the cafeteria."

Steve smiled and nodded. "Sure." As she turned away from the bed, he stopped her. "Hey, ah, where's Rudy disappeared to?"

She grinned. "Oh, I, ah, I sent him on an errand," she chuckled, heading towards the door. Before she could each for the handle, it opened and a nurse she had a nodding acquaintance with popped her head in.

"Oh, Miss Stone, I was hoping to find you here. We just got a call from ICU. They wanted you to know your father just opened his eyes," she said quickly, her face wreathed in smiles.

Unable to suppress her gasp of surprise and delight, Jeannie turned to Steve, her eyes wide and excited. He smiled back, gesturing at her with his chin. "Go, go, go…"

The nurse held the door open for her as she bolted from the room.

About to close the door, the nurse hesitated, looking at the bed. Steve was still looking in her direction, but his smile had disappeared and his stare was unfocused. "Is that your partner?" she asked softly.

Steve's eyes cleared and he shook his head once. "I'm sorry?"

She smiled. "Her father. He's your partner?"

He cleared his throat then his lips curled. He nodded. "Yeah… yeah, he is."

"Then that's good news for you both, isn't it?"

He chuckled softly, his eyes sliding away again. "Yes, it is." There was a lump in his throat he was having trouble talking around.

She began to close the door.

"Uh, I'm sorry," he called to her and she stopped, her eyes a question. "I'm sorry, but… there's a man down in the cafeteria –"

"Would that be the tall blond man who was in here with you awhile ago?"

"Ah, yeah, that's him… I'd really like to talk to him again –"

"Say no more," she said quickly, raising a hand, "I'll send one of the candy-stripers down."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," she answered breezily as she let the door shut behind her.

He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, trying to stop the tears of relief from sliding down his cheeks.

# # # # #

Dr. Warren was in the cubicle when Jeannie quickly strode through the ICU, trying not to run. Too excited to wait for the elevator, she had charged down the stairs and through the corridors, unable to contain her wide and very relieved grin. He glanced up from the far side of the bed as she almost burst into the small room.

"Ah, Miss Stone," he chuckled with a smile, "I believe you may have set a record getting down here from the fourth floor." He took a step back from the bed gestured her closer with a tilt of his head.

"He's awake?" she asked softly, her eyes on his face as she circled the bed, almost afraid to look at her father.

"He opened his eyes but he's not quite awake yet," he said encouragingly as her gaze slid to the bed. Above the oxygen mask, Mike's eyes were open but didn't seem to be focused on anything.

Inhaling unsteadily, she bit her lips as she stared into the familiar blue eyes. "Daddy…?" she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

"It's going to take awhile until he's able to respond to you, Miss Stone –"

"Jeannie," she said automatically, her voice suddenly strong, and she glanced at him over her shoulder with a quick, apologetic smile. "Please, call me Jeannie..." She slid her hand into her father's and squeezed as she looked into his unresponsive eyes and smiled lovingly. She leaned over the bed and stroked his forehead with her other hand. "Hi, Daddy," she whispered.

Behind her, she heard Dr. Warren take a deep breath. "This is a great first step… Jeannie," he said slowly, as if trying out the name, "but it's only the first. The others should start to come a lot faster now but I have to tell you, he's going to be here for awhile yet. Hypothermia takes a toll on the body, especially of an older person – not that your father is all that old…" he chuckled, and was rewarded when she glanced at him with a warm and understanding smile.

"Please," she laughed, "don't tell him that when he wakes up, okay? He doesn't consider himself 'old'."

"And he's not," the doctor laughed gently. "From someone who is just marginally younger than he is, believe me the definition of 'old' keeps changing as one ages… As a matter of fact, I'm starting to consider 70 to be middle age."

She joined in his laughter as she continued to stare into her father's eyes, watching him blink slowly, stroking his forehead.

"Stay with him as long as you want," he said encouragingly, "it'll help, believe me. He'll probably fall asleep again but that's to be expected. His body is healing itself and it's exhausting. But he's taken a huge step, my dear, a huge step, and you should feel very optimistic."

"Oh, I am, Dr. Warren," she shook her head in relief, her eyes not leaving Mike's face, "I am. Thank you for taking such good care of him."

She couldn't see Warren's grin but she could hear it in his voice. "You're very welcome, my dear. I'll be back in later."

Listening to his soft footfalls as he left the room, she sat on the edge of the bed and leaned even closer. As she continued to stare into her father's soft blue eyes, she bit her quivering lower lip, trying not to cry.

"I love you, Daddy…" she whispered.

# # # # #

The heavy wooden door opened slowly and Sergeant Walker stuck his head into the room. He grinned tentatively, his eyebrows raised in optimistic anticipation. Steve lifted his head from the pillow and looked in his direction.

The big blond cop took a step deeper into the room, still holding the door open. "You, ah, you up for a visitor?"

Steve smiled then nodded. "Please… come on in." He indicated the nearby chair with his chin. As Walker let the door close and approached the chair, he offered quietly, "Listen, ah, I'm sorry about earlier… you just sort of… well, you caught me by surprise…"

Walker froze briefly before dropping his coat over the back of the chair and sitting, his hat in his hand. "Hey, it was my fault, man, I should've realized you might not've known what went down that night…"

Steve was shaking his head and he snorted dryly. "It's not your fault. Certain people thought it might be better for me not to know right away –"

"Mike's daughter?" Walker interrupted almost involuntarily, his face lighting up.

The young detective frowned. "You've met Jeannie?"

"Oh yeah," Walked chuckled with a tilt of his head. "She's a spitfire, isn't she?"

Unable to stop himself, Steve laughed softly. "Yeah, that's a good word for her."

"So, she talked to you, did she?" the big cop asked hesitantly.

Steve snorted. "Talked _at_ me is more like it, but I have to admit, she was right."

Walker nodded. "Yeah, women have a habit of doing that… being right, I mean?" he chuckled and the younger man nodded in agreement. He glanced around the room. "I kinda thought she'd still be in here with you… you know, reading you the riot act…?"

The man on the bed chuckled and looked down. "She's down in ICU with Mike. He, ah… he opened his eyes." There was no mistaking the overwhelming relief in his voice.

Walker's eyes, which were still roving around the room, snapped back to his and froze. "You're kidding, right?"

Steve shook his head, smiling.

"Oh my god, that's great news." Walker shifted on the chair as if he couldn't contain his own sense of relief. He dropped his head and exhaled loudly then his head snapped up again. He stared at the bed and its occupant, who was facing the far wall, his thoughts obviously far away… no doubt in a small room two floors below. "Be right back," Walker said quickly, getting up and exiting the room before Steve could respond.

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, Steve idly noted the black pea coat hanging over the back of the white plastic chair then looked down at the lump in the blanket over his chest before allowing his head to fall back heavily against the thin pillow. He closed his eyes and tried not to think. He was woefully unsuccessful.

Several long minutes later, the door opened quickly and Walker backed into the room, pulling a wheelchair. As he spun it around, he laughed almost breathlessly, "Well, that took a lot of fast talking but I managed to convince the nurses, and your doctor, bless his heart, that doing this will not be detrimental to your health." He finished with a gesture at the chair and huge smile.

His brow furrowed in confusion, Steve looked from the chair to the beaming face of the Vacaville police sergeant.

Walker patted the back of the chair. "Wanna go for a ride?"

Steve tilted his head. "I don't think I –"

"Sure you are. Even your doctor thinks so, he just told me." He smiled enigmatically. "I had to promise you wouldn't be gone long, but I told them this would go a long way towards your recovery. Please don't make a liar out of me…" His smile turned almost comically pleading.

Steve's eyes went from the chair to Walker, with a hopeful but wavering smile. Then, nodding firmly, he started to pull the blanket down with his left hand.

"Here, let me help you with that," Walker offered, crossing quickly to the bed.

# # # # #

Jeannie was still sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over her father, gently stroking his forehead. His eyes were still open but unfocused. She was crooning to him softly, repeating his name over and over, waiting and hoping for him to respond in some small way to let her know he was there.

She heard a small commotion out near the nurses station but didn't look up. It was most likely an emergency in one of the other cubicles, she thought.

The hubbub died down and in the ensuing silence she heard a deep male voice clear its throat. She looked up at the door, unable to contain her gasp of surprise.

Wrapped in a thick light blue blanket, Steve was sitting in a wheelchair, his eyes locked on hers. Walker was standing behind him, beaming. "So… is your dad up to having a visitor?"


	27. Chapter 27

Grinning, Jeannie slid off the edge of the bed, bent over her father to stroke his forehead one more time, then released his hand and circled towards Steve and Walker. "His eyes are open but he's not focusing on anything yet," she said softly as she leaned closer to Steve, laying a hand lightly on the rough stubble of his cheek. He was looking past her to the bed.

She glanced up at Walker, who winked. "Let's get you around to the other side of the bed," he said conversationally to his passenger, and she bit her lip; his positivity and cheerfulness, so necessary at this moment, reminded her very much of Mike.

The big cop pushed the chair to the head of the narrow aisle on the far side of the bed then stopped, thinking. Mike's head was turned slightly to the left, towards the wall on that side, making the small space the only possible location for the wheelchair. But the problem now became Steve's mobility: if he was pushed straight in, his good arm would not be close to the bed.

As if reading his mind, Steve said softly, "Just push it halfway up… I can reach across, don't worry."

"You sure?"

"Yeah…"

Walker pushed the chair into position then joined Jeannie at the door. Both of them watched as Steve, trying not to grimace, repositioned himself so he could extend his left arm far enough across his body. He was staring into Mike's open eyes above the oxygen mask. Then, reaching up to stroke his forehead as Jeannie had been doing, he whispered, "I'm here, Mike... Steve's here…"

Jeannie, her eyes bright, looked up at Walker and nudged him, and silently the two of them left the room.

# # # # #

"I promised his doctor I wouldn't keep him down here too long," Walked confessed as they stepped out of the ICU into the lobby near the elevators.

"You got Dr. Conrad to agree to this?" Jeannie asked with impressed surprise. "He's a bit of a… a…"

"Teutonic martinet?" Walker asked with a chuckle. When she laughed with a nod, he continued, "I've dealt with a lot of them in my time… you just have to know how to handle them. You can bully a bully, you know."

She smiled warmly. "You sound like my dad."

"I'm glad he's doing better," Walker said kindly, "I really can't wait to meet him." He glanced at the ICU doors. "He and Steve really have something special going, don't they? I mean, even with the age difference and all."

She nodded. "Almost from the first day they met, I think. It really _is_ something. They'd die for each other," she said almost casually then froze, dropping her eyes.

"Wow," she shook her head with a dry snort, "that's a phrase that everyone bandies about without even thinking, don't they?"

Walker nodded, looking at her warmly. "Yeah, they sure do…"

She looked over her shoulder at the double glass doors they had just passed through. "I wonder what's going through Steve's head right now…?"

"Right now?" Walker said with a sigh and shake of his head. "Right now the only thing going through his head is, my partner is alive and we're together again…" He looked Jeannie in the eye and nodded. "I guarantee you…"

# # # # #

Steve had taken his left hand off Mike's forehead and slipped it over his hand; the gaze was still unfocused and there was no reassuring reciprocal squeeze from the stiff fingers. He tried to smile, remarking softly, "Your hand's still a little cold." He rubbed his own hand over his partner's, hoping to generate some warmth.

A few minutes later, Mike's eyes slowly closed. His chest continued to rise and fall and the green blips marched uniformly across the monitor above the bed. Steve stopped rubbing his hand, settling back and wrapping his own hand around his partner's fingers.

"Why did you do it, Mike…? Why did you leave the car…?" He continued to stare at his best friend's unresponsive face as the hot tears coursed down his unshaven cheeks.

# # # # #

Walker glanced at his watch then pushed himself away from the wall. "Jeez, I gotta get Steve back to his room. I told Dr. Conrad we'd only be gone about twenty minutes and it's already that." As he turned towards the double doors, they heard the elevator chime and the doors open.

"Ah ha," they heard a gruff voice behind them, "I was hoping I'd find you here."

Both of them turned towards the elevator in time to see Rudy Olsen emerge, two large paper bags with handles in his hands.

"Uncle Rudy!" Jeannie exclaimed then lowered her voice as she approached him, chuckling, "I almost forgot about you!"

"Oh, that's nice…" he griped good-naturedly, hefting the bags. "This is just some of the stuff you asked for; the rest is in the car. That was quite the list, you know?" He looked up at the tall well-built, middle-aged blond man who seemed to be accompanying Mike's daughter. "Who are you?" he growled, brow furrowed in wariness.

Still chuckling, Jeannie took one of the bags from his hand. "Captain Rudy Olsen, this is Sergeant Dean Walker from the Vacaville Police Department. He's one of the guys who found Mike and Steve the other night."

"Oh, ah, geez, uh, sorry about that," the older man stammered, raising his now free right hand for the sergeant to shake. "A pleasure, believe me. Dean, is it?"

Nodding with a warm chuckle, Walker shook the older man's hand. "You their boss?"

"Yeah, ah, I guess I am… but I've also known her father for over twenty-five years, so… more an old friend than a boss by now, you could say…"

"Rudy," Jeannie interrupted, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet, "good news. Dad opened his eyes." When he turned to her with his eyebrows raised, she continued, "He's not awake yet, but it's a start and the doctors are really pleased with his progress." She glanced at Walker almost conspiratorially. "And we've got Steve down here with him."

Olsen glanced at Walker, who was beaming, before asking, "Steve? I didn't think he was allowed out of his room under any circumstances."

"Well, I guess Dr. Conrad changed his mind… when the circumstances were explained to him in just the right way," Walker contributed, sharing a look with Jeannie before turning his attention back to the captain.

"I don't think I'll ask…" Olsen mumbled dryly then smiled. "That's great news, it really is." He held up the other bag. "Ah, here. You take –"

"Listen, ah," Jeannie interrupted with an apologetic smile, thrusting the first bag back into his hand, "we've gotta get Steve back upstairs before Dr. Conrad has a conniption fit, so… how about I meet you in the cafeteria in about, oh… fifteen minutes?" She glanced at Walker, who nodded. "Fifteen minutes," she repeated.

Grumbling, looking from one to the other, Olsen took hold of the second bag, nodding. Jeannie flashed him another smile as she and the big Vacaville cop disappeared through the ICU doors and he turned wearily to the elevator, juggling the heavy bags as he tried to push the button.

# # # # #

Steve was sitting just as they had left him. They stood in the doorway for several long seconds, watching him, before they crossed the threshold and he became aware of their presence. He turned slowly towards them and smiled almost sadly. "He's asleep," he said quietly.

With a soft smile of her own, Jeannie crossed to the near side of the bed, looking at her father's peaceful face. "Yeah, the doctor said that'll happen a lot… he needs the rest. Did he…?" She raised her eyebrows in hope but he shook his head. "That'll happen," she sighed encouragingly, nodding.

"We gotta get you back upstairs," Walker said apologetically as he stepped further into the room.

Inhaling deeply, Steve nodded, not taking his eyes from his partner. "Yeah, I know," he said softly, then looked up at Walker and nodded. As the sergeant circled the bed to grab hold of the wheelchair handles, Steve gave Mike's hand one final squeeze. As they approached the door, he looked back at Jeannie.

"I'm gonna stay here with him for a little bit, then I'll come up to see you. Okay?" She smiled as she watched them go through the door. She wanted to give them some time alone, knowing that Walker wanted to talk to Steve about what he was going through. Besides, she still had some things to do with Rudy before she could even think of leaving the hospital for a break, or a decent meal.

She crossed around to the far side of the bed and sat on the edge, putting her warm palm once more on her father's forehead. "I'm glad Steve got to see you," she began conversationally. "He really needed that. I know you did too. And I can't wait till you meet Sergeant Walker, you're gonna like him."

She glanced at her watch. "I gotta go find Uncle Rudy in the cafeteria. I sent him out on a shopping trip. He grumbled a lot but I think he's happy I put him to good use." She stood up, leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead then tucked his right hand under the blanket, being careful of the catheter. She looked up at the green blips on the monitor, finding comfort in their regularity.

"I'll be back soon, Daddy."

# # # # #

Dr. Conrad was nowhere to be seen as Walker wheeled the injured detective back to his room. One of the nurses came in to lend a hand getting Steve into the bed, but Walker waved her off with a genial, "No no, it's okay, I've got this."

The trip up in the elevator had been a silent one; the sergeant knew why and didn't press the matter. Now, with Steve back in the bed, Walker hesitated, pushing the wheelchair closer to the door. He looked back at the young inspector, who had almost disappeared into the pillows on the raised bed, the blanket pulled up to his chin and his eyes closed. "Are you okay?" he asked gently.

Steve's lips curled into a very slight smile and he nodded, keeping his eyes closed. "Yeah… my arm just aches a little," he said quietly through gritted teeth.

"You want me to get the doctor?" Walker asked quickly, suddenly worried.

"No no no," Steve shook his head, his smile getting a little wider. "I just need a little time…"

Walker hesitated a beat then, "Maybe we shouldn't've got you out of bed –"

"No." The green eyes snapped open and turned towards him, frowning. He relaxed and the smile appeared again. "No, I'm glad we went… I needed to go…"

With a chuckle, the blond cop moved slowly towards the bed. "I know you did." He met Steve's stare evenly. "So… you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

Walker smiled with a snort. "You know what…"

# # # # #

Jeannie saw the bags before she saw the man. Olsen had placed both paper bags on the small cafeteria table and he was hidden, not intentionally she was sure, behind them.

"Thanks for getting all this!" she practically shouted as she got to the table, chuckling when he jumped.

He'd managed to slide his chair back out of the way to avoid the coffee spilling from the cup that was halfway to his mouth; he followed that up with a glare in her direction that melted away at her obvious joy and relief about her father.

Still chuckling, she put a sympathetic hand on his arm as he pulled his chair forward again and she dropped into the chair next to him. "Don't forget what I told you, we'll reimburse you for all this."

"Don't worry about that, my dear, I just hope I got everything you wanted."

"I'm sure you did. You said there's more in the car?"

"Another two bags."

"Great thanks." She took a deep breath. "There's only a couple of things I want right now; we can take the rest over to the motel until we need it." She sobered slightly and he cocked his head.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently.

"Oh yeah… Mike's doing better, and they're going to x-ray him tomorrow morning, so that's good." She tried to sound optimistic but she was missing the mark, and he knew it.

"But…?"

She looked at him almost guiltily. "Rudy, I'm worried about Steve."

He frowned and leaned a little closer. "Why?"

She took a deep breath then released it in a sigh. "Because he knows about Mike leaving the car to find help for him… and he feels guilty… and he's blaming himself for Mike's condition…and there's nothing you or I can say to him that'll change his mind, I just know it." She sighed again but this time a small smile emerged. "But I think I have a secret weapon…"

Olsen's eyebrows rose. "Oh, yeah. And what's that?"

"Sergeant Dean Walker."


	28. Chapter 28

Walker stared at the young man in front of him unrelentingly. Steve ducked his head, not meeting the intense stare.

"So… who's gonna start… you or me?" the big blond cop said flatly.

Steve met the glare evenly, almost defiantly. Then he blinked, and Walker knew he had won.

There was a deep exhale from the man on the bed then he asked quietly, "So, what do you want me to say?"

"Well," Walker said easily as he stepped next to the bed, pulling the plastic chair closer and dropping into it, his baseball cap in his hand, "how about we start with your guilt?"

"I don't have any guilt," Steve answered quickly, looking away again.

Walker snorted. "Bullshit. You're reeking of it." The words were caustic and he knew they stung, but he had to get a rise out of this young man if any good was going to come out of this.

Steve's eyes snapped to the sergeant's face; the affable, compassionate look was gone, replaced by an intense stare that told him this was a man who wouldn't stop until he had what he wanted. It was an attitude and a defiance that was achingly familiar.

"Look, I know you think that Mike getting out of the car… to do whatever it was he was bound and determined to do – find help for you or whatever… was, what? That him doing what he did was a result of you… what? Passing out from the pain and the cold? Like that was something you could control?... That's guilt talking, not common sense. And you know that as well as I do."

His eyes travelling slowly to the bed, Steve sat silently, letting Walker's words wash over him.

"Do you think you're the first person to feel guilt over something they had no control over?" Walker snorted mirthlessly. "Ask any guy who walks out of a battle during any war, when his comrades were dying in droves all around him, and he doesn't have a mark on him; ask anyone who's ever walked away from a plane crash or a boat capsizing, or out of a fire. There but for the grace, right?"

"But that's not what happened here," Steve protested almost feebly.

"You don't think so?" Walker tilted his head, a soft edge returning to his voice. "I think this is exactly what happened. And you know why?" he asked rhetorically, not waiting for a reply, "Because if the shoe had been on the other foot, you would have done exactly the same thing Mike did." He paused to let the words sink in. "Wouldn't you?"

Steve stared at the bed, chewing on his bottom lip.

"If it had been Mike that passed out and you were the one with your wits still about you, wouldn't you have gotten out of the car to find help, even though you knew it was probably the wrong thing to do but you were desperate to save your partner… your best friend…?"

Steve didn't move.

"Just think about that, will ya? What Mike did, he did out of love, just like you would've done for him… and I know that for a fact." He smiled and leaned forward. "And I'm sure he never expected to pass out himself, he never expected not to do what he set out to do. He probably figured he wasn't as cold and wasn't as vulnerable as he was… they say the cold can do that to you…"

Walker took a deep breath. "They've told us he's going to be all right, it's just going to take some time. Right? So why don't you hang onto that instead of your guilt. He's gonna need you to be with him when he really wakes up, which hopefully will be soon, and he doesn't need you to be filled with guilt and regret, 'cause as good as you two know each other, he's going to feel that from you. Mark my words. And he doesn't need that – he doesn't need to have to deal with your misplaced guilt when he'll have his own problems."

He paused and stared at the downturned head. "Am I right?"

Steve still didn't move, but Walker knew he was absorbing everything that was being said.

Walker inhaled deeply then got slowly to his feet. "Look, ah, I'm gonna let you rest for awhile… and think about what I just said. I know you've got a lot to deal with, and I'm not here to pile on, but you gotta know that Mike's going to feel your guilt the minute he sees you when he's compos mentis again. Do you really want to do that to him?"

Crossing slowly to the door, the sergeant looked back at the bed; Steve was still staring at the wall in front of him, his gaze unfocused. He opened the door and stepped silently out into the hall, letting the door close softly behind him. Exhaling loudly, putting his baseball cap on his head, he started down the corridor, not really sure where he was going but just knowing he had to walk.

# # # # #

One of the large paper bags in hand, she was turning the corner onto Steve's ward when she spied Sergeant Walker heading down the corridor in the other direction. She sped up as discreetly as she could to catch up, not wanting to yell his name in the hushed ward.

He turned when he heard the rapidly approaching footsteps and she almost slid to a stop to avoid running into him. He smiled.

"So," she said anxiously, "did you get a chance to talk to him?"

He chuckled. "Well, to quote him talking about you, I talked _at_ him," he said lightly and saw her frown slightly.

"He said _that?"_ she muttered and he chuckled.

"But I think he listened," Walker continued. He shrugged. "He was very quiet but I think I gave him some things to think about… I hope so anyway. But who knows, right?"

"Well, thanks for trying. Coming from you, you know, being a cop and all that? Well, your words will have more weight than anything I could say to him… and probably even Rudy. Even though he's a captain and their boss, he's still kinda too close, if you know what I mean."

"Oh yeah, I sure do." He nodded at the bag in her hand. "What've you got there?"

"Well, I had Rudy go out and get them some pajamas and toiletries… and clothes. Everything they were wearing was cut off them, of course." She shrugged slightly. "And I was wondering if I could prevail upon you – and please feel free to say no – well, if you could help with getting Steve shaved and cleaned up a little. I know it would make him feel better."

Walker smiled, impressed. "That's a great idea. But I think we need to give him some time right now… to do a little thinking on his own, don't you agree?"

After a second, she nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I guess you're right. Listen, ah, I don't want to impose on you… if you have to leave -?"

"Jeannie, don't worry, it's my day off and I don't report for work till tomorrow afternoon, so I have all day. It's my pleasure, believe me."

She grinned. "Okay, I'll take advantage of you a little more then," she laughed and he chuckled. "Look, why don't you go grab a bite to eat. I'm gonna go down and spend some time with my father and then when you think it's right, we'll go see Steve, okay?"

"I think that's a great idea. Here, let me take that," he said, taking the bag from her hand, "no need for you to be hauling that around all over the hospital, and I'll see you later. Say hi to your dad for me," he smiled as he turned away.

# # # # #

"Hi, Daddy," Jeannie said warmly as she leaned over the bed, taking his right hand in hers and resting her other hand on his forehead. His eyes were open again and she thought she could see a little more focus. "The doctors say you're doing great. I knew you would… you're not going to let a little thing like the cold get the better of you, right?"

He blinked slowly and she froze slightly. "Can you hear me, Mike?"

He blinked again, just as slowly.

Still not quite convinced, she instructed, "If you can hear me, blink once normally and then once slowly." He did. She bit her bottom lip, trying to not to squeal. "Oh, Daddy, I knew you were there." She stroked his forehead as he continued to stare at her.

# # # # #

Jeannie pushed the heavy wooden door open with her shoulder and strode into the room. Steve was lying back on the bed with his eyes closed. He turned in her direction as she approached, the paper bag in hand.

"How're ya doin'?" she asked conversationally as she dropped the bag on the plastic chair and stood over the bed. She could tell he had been sitting there contemplating things but she had no idea what he was thinking.

He smiled slightly and her heart soared. "I'm doing fine," he said softly. He nodded towards the bag. "What's that?"

She knew he was deflecting, trying to take the focus off himself, so she went along. "That?" she echoed, picking up the bag again. "Well, this…" she set it on the bed, "this is full of good stuff." She reached into the bag and brought out a pair of dark blue pajamas. "These are for you, so you can get out of that hospital gown that I know you love so much," she chuckled as she laid them on the blanket on his lap then reached back into the bag, "and this," she pulled out a can of shaving cream and a razor, "this is to help make you look human again."

Steve chuckled. "Wow, that's great, thanks," he said softly, looking at the stuff in her hands, "but I can't…" he gestured towards his face with his left hand, glancing down at his useless right.

"I know that," she said smugly, "and I know you probably don't want me attempting it either," she raised her eyebrows with a smirk, "so I'm calling in the cavalry." She crossed to the door and opened it. Sergeant Walker was standing on the other side. Steve met his eyes and they both froze, then the big blond cop smiled and stepped into the room.

"I hear you need a little assistance, the kind I can provide," he chuckled as he crossed to the bed.

Steve watched him approach, his expression unreadable. Then he said softly, "Yeah… yeah, I can use a hand… Thanks…"

# # # # #

Jeannie stood just outside the door of the small ICU cubicle, out of everyone's way. Doctor Warren and two of the nurses were standing around the bed, getting Mike ready for his trip to X-ray. The IV bag was transferred to a tall pole attached to the bed.

As the bed was wheeled passed her, she followed. Mike's eyes were open and they focused on her briefly as he passed. She caught up to the bed after it was wheeled out of ICU, across the small hallway and into the elevator; she grabbed her father's right hand and squeezed.

She held onto him on the winding route to Radiology then released his hand as the bed disappeared into the X-ray room in the Radiology Department. With a worried sigh, she trudged back to the waiting room and sat. It was only the beginning of another very long day.


	29. Chapter 29

Almost before she knew it, it seemed, the hospital bed carrying her father reappeared. She got up and left the waiting room, joining the small cortege as it headed back to ICU. The nurse smiled at her. "He did great," she said, and Jeannie looked down at her father.

His eyes were closed. She reached out and took his right hand. The elevator doors opened and they entered. As the doors closed, she felt some movement against her hand and she jumped slightly. She glanced down; she could see his fingers curled slightly around hers. Her eyes snapped to his face; his eyes were open and he was looking at her with a focus she hadn't seen in a long time, it felt.

"Daddy?" she asked breathlessly and the nurse's head turned quickly towards her. She felt the pressure from his fingers a little stronger, and she grinned. "Mike? You're there, aren't you?"

He blinked slowly and she laughed, her free hand going to her mouth. "Oh my god," she almost squealed as she bent over the bed and kissed him. "I can't wait to tell Steve, he's been so worried about you…" She stroked his cheek, smiling.

The elevator doors opened.

# # # # #

She was sitting beside the bed, staring at her father's face and into his open eyes. They were back in ICU. He was hooked up to oxygen again but now it was a cannula under his nose instead of the mask, and the heart monitor had been reattached. He still hadn't made any effort to talk but his grip on her hand had increased.

There was the clearing of a throat at the entrance and she looked up. A doctor she didn't recognize was standing in the doorway, a clipboard in his hand. "Ah, Miss Stone?" he asked, peering at her through thick black-rimmed glasses.

She nodded quickly.

"Ah, I'm Doctor Tenney, the thoracic surgeon. We have the results of your father's x-ray."

"Oh, yes," she said briskly, sitting up a little straighter in the chair but keeping ahold of her father's hand. She'd been waiting for this, wanting to find out the results before telling Steve the good news about Mike's progress.

Tenney crossed closer to the other side of the bed. "Well," he began, his eyes still scanning the clipboard, "there's good news and not so good news, but no bad news." He glanced up and smiled. "Sorry to be so obtuse," he chuckled. "The good news is, we found the bullet and it's not in a life-threatening location. As a matter of fact, far from it. It went in and down but behind his lung, thank goodness, and into his back. It lodged in the bone on the inside of his clavicle, his shoulder blade. Now the clavicle is fractured but it's not a displaced fracture, so he should heal completely without any complications."

He stopped, still reading, and Jeannie tilted her head. "You said there was 'not so good news'…?"

"Ah, yes, if the bullet had ended up anywhere else, we could've left it in and it wouldn't've done any damage." He looked at her and smiled. "But unfortunately with your father, the bullet will interfere with the movement of his clavicle against his rib cage so it has to be removed. That's the not so good news – he'll have to undergo an operation."

Her face fell slightly, worried. "When will you do that?"

Tenney lowered the clipboard and looked at Mike's face. "Well, we're going to give him a little more time to recover from the hypothermia. There's no rush. When he's strong enough to withstand an operation, we'll do it. It's not major surgery and we should be able to get in and out fast with minimal invasion. He'll have a little scar under his arm and that'll be about it." He looked at her and smiled. "So, all in all, it's a pretty good report."

She nodded, grateful for his optimism.

He gestured with his chin towards the bed. "How's he doing?"

"He's a lot more focused than he was even this morning, and he's gripping my hand stronger, so he's coming along."

"That's great news. I don't have any experience dealing with patients with hypothermia, but I have a feeling his recovery is going to start getting faster and faster now."

She smiled gratefully, needing to hear those encouraging words.

"Well, sorry to dash but I have other patients that need my attention, who are a lot worse off than he is," he grinned, giving her a comforting wink as he turned and headed out of the room. "I'll be seeing you both later."

"Thank you, Doctor Tenney," she called after him then turned to her father, smiling and squeezing his hand.

# # # # #

"Hey, I want to thank you again for the pajamas. It makes a big difference," Steve acknowledged with a small smile as she crossed towards the bed, letting the door close behind her.

"You know, that color really looks great on you," Jeannie nodded with approval, bobbing her eyebrows. "Rudy really knows his stuff."

He frowned. "Rudy?"

"Uhm-humh," she chuckled. "I had him do all the shopping for me… I was, you know, kinda busy…"

"Rudy…?" he repeated. She knew he was trying to keep the mood light and, although he was rising to the challenge, she realized he still wasn't the old Steve Keller she had come to know and love. There was an almost guilty embarrassment about him, and she wasn't sure if it was just because it was her or if he was behaving this way with everyone.

Walker had helped get him shaved and into the pajamas the previous evening, and she had learned later from the Vacaville cop that their interaction had been low key and that he thought Steve was still mulling over what he had been told earlier in the day.

"Not only that, I had him buy you and Mike some clothes to wear on the way home." She glared at him with a smug, 'I dare you to challenge me' smile.

"Oh dear god," he said with a deadpan sincerity, "why do I picture myself wearing plaid golf pants and a red Polo shirt?"

She smacked him lightly on the leg. "Don't be so skeptical. I gave him really good instructions on what to buy. He just had to figure out the sizes."

As his head hit the pillow, he rolled his eyes. "I can hardly wait to see them…"

"Cynic," she muttered then chuckled. "How're the fingers?" she asked, nodding towards his hand buried under the sheet.

He pulled the sheet down. "Better," he said, wiggling them. They weren't as swollen and were slowly returning to their natural pink colour.

"That's great." She looked at him and smiled. "You want some other great news?"

His eyes snapped to her face and she could see the hope in his eyes. She nodded. "He isn't talking yet but Mike's squeezing my hand and making eye contact… and they took the x-ray this morning and the bullet is lodged against his shoulder blade and when he gets a little better, they're going to go in and take it out."

Steve's mouth had opened slightly as he listened. He swallowed and asked, "The bullet didn't do any real damage?"

"Nope," she shook her head, smiling, "they said he'll be fine… well, the shoulder blade has a slight fracture… but he's gonna be fine."

He closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip, then sighed heavily. Opening his eyes again, he looked at her but before he could say anything, she said, "I'm not lying, I promise…"

He smiled. "Can I go down and see him again?"

She knew he was going to ask that and she was prepared. She put a hand on his arm lightly. "Later on tonight," she said, "they want him to relax for a bit but, ah, if you're up to it, I might be able to scrounge up a chessboard and take you on."

"You play chess?"

"Umh-humh. Not very well but –"

"Like your Dad," he teased with a smile.

"Hey!" she hit his leg with the back of her hand then chuckled. "You want to play or not?"

"I'd love to," he grinned and this time it went all the way to his eyes.

# # # # #

"So where _is_ Rudy?" Steve asked as he took one of her pawns and dropped it triumphantly on the blanket over his legs.

Frowning as she watched her piece being removed from the board and unceremoniously tossed, Jeannie pursed her lips as she studied the board again. "Humh? Oh, he's, ah, he went back to The City this morning. He's coming back the day after tomorrow. Hopefully one of you might be able to go home soon."

"I'm not going back without Mike," he said sharply, his eyes narrowing.

She looked up, frowning. "I didn't mean that. What I meant to say was… if you are released sooner than Mike, you can move into the motel I'm staying in just across the street and we'll wait for Mike. That's all."

He relaxed, nodding slowly. "Okay… okay, I like that… yeah, that'll work." He watched as she moved a knight but his pointed stare stopped her before she took her hand off it. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. He very slightly shook his head and she returned it to the original square then sat back and stared at the board with an intensity he had rarely seen. He smiled to himself.

After several long seconds of silence, during which he bit back several witty ripostes, she leaned forward and confidently moved a bishop. Pleasantly surprised, he leaned over the board, his brow furrowing.

He was just reaching for one of his rooks when there was a soft knock on the door and a nurse poked her head in. "Miss Stone?"

Jeannie had turned in the chair. "Yes?" Suddenly, inexplicably, her heart jumped into her throat.

The nurse smiled. "We just got a call from ICU. Your father's asking for you."

# # # # #

Taking the stairs two at a time, she crossed the hallway and into ICU on the run, slowing to a respectable double time march to get to the far cubicle. Dr. Warren was standing on the other side of the bed, smiling. He looked up as she appeared in the doorway, his face lighting up. Without a word, he beckoned her over, stepping away from the bed to make room.

It took every shred of self-control not to race around the bed, her eyes glued to her father's head. Then she saw his eyes, wide and bright, and beneath them, a smile. He lifted his right hand a few inches off the bed, reaching for her.

She gasped and bit her lips, trying not to cry as she moved, mesmerized, closer to him. As her hand wrapped around his, he whispered, "Jeannie…"

# # # # #

"I can't believe you made me wait till after dinner before bringing me down here," Steve bitched good-naturedly as the elevator doors closed.

Standing behind him, Jeannie lightly swatted the back of his head, much like her father did. "I told you, they wanted to do some tests on him and then give him something to eat, seeing as he hasn't had any solid food in a few days. And he couldn't have any of the pizza we did –"

"Yes, thank you for that. It's too bad they didn't deliver."

"Hey, I needed the break. And it was good to get outside into the fresh air."

He smiled then took a deep, steadying breath that she could hear. She put her hand on the shoulder of the hospital dressing gown over the blue pajamas. "He's really doing okay?"

"Better than okay… and he really was asking for you."

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. In silence, she wheeled the chair across the hallway and through the double doors. The eyes of every nurse and doctor in the hub glanced their way as they moved slowly across the large circular room.

She stopped when they got to the door. The bed was partially raised and Mike, his left arm now in a sling, was lying back against the thin pillows with his eyes closed.

Very slowly, Steve pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the bed. As he sat carefully on the edge, Mike's head turned towards him and he opened his eyes. Steve smiled and laid his left hand gently on the side of his partner's beard-stubbled face. "Hi, Butch," he said quietly.

Mike's eyes narrowed in confusion and then he smiled. "Hi, Sundance…"


	30. Chapter 30

Steve laughed softly, patting the side of his best friend's face, thrilled beyond words that Mike could remember the brief exchange they'd had in the car. It was the last memory he had before waking up in the hospital, and was very encouraged that Mike remembered it too.

"I guess we beat the Bolivian army after all, hunh?" the younger man whispered with a grin.

Jeannie, leaning against the doorframe, a hand over her mouth and struggling not to cry, smiled at the reference. She had seen the movie years ago with her dad and knew he had loved it as much as she had. It took her breath away that they were referring to it now.

Her father's face creased with a warm grin. "I guess we did." He reached up with his good hand to touch the younger man's face. Even from across the room Jeannie could see the brightness in his eyes, which flicked briefly to Steve's right arm hidden beneath the bathrobe. "Are you okay?"

Steve nodded. "They put me back together. But I guess I'm a bit like Steve Austin now…" he said with a chuckle and raised eyebrows. When Mike frowned in confusion, he continued lightly, "You know? The Six Million Dollar Man…? Boing-oing-oing-oing-oing…"

Mike snorted. "Never watch it. But if it means you've become invincible, I'm all for it."

The younger man shrugged with a laugh. "Probably not, but I do have a steel rod in my forearm now. Maybe I can deflect bullets like Superman."

Grimacing, Mike closed his eyes briefly with a strangled laugh. "Please, I don't want to find out, okay? This," he nodded at Steve's right arm again, "has been plenty, all right? No more…"

Nodding in agreement, sobering, Steve nodded, patting his partner's face. "Don't worry, I won't let it happen again, if I can help it." They stared at each other, knowing it was a promise neither of them could honestly keep. Then the younger man smiled warmly. "How do you feel?"

Mike took a deep breath then shrugged slightly. "Okay, I guess. I'm still really tired… and cold…"

"Cold?"

"Yeah, you know, like _in your bones_ cold. Especially my feet."

Almost subconsciously, Steve reached down and pulled the heavy blanket covering the older man higher, tucking it around him even more. Jeannie pushed away from the doorframe and sat on the end of the bed. She slipped the blanket off her father's left foot and started to warm it between her hands.

Smiling with pleasure, Mike closed his eyes and burrowed his head back into the pillow. Steve looked over his shoulder and met Jeannie's stare with an affectionate smile. The happy tears stood out in her eyes. When he turned back, Mike had opened his eyes; "Are you in much pain?" he asked, frowning.

Steve shook his head. "I'm on some pretty good painkillers, thank god. They did put about a hundred stitches in my arm, both upper and lower, inside and out, so I kinda look like a Frankenstein monster right now, but they tell me the scarring won't be too bad."

Mike's eyes narrowed. "You aren't lying to me, are you?"

Tilting his head with a smirk, the younger man sighed. "Now do you really think I can pull one over on you? How long have we been together?" he asked rhetorically and Mike bobbled his head with a long-suffering roll of his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…" he moaned flippantly. "So when are they letting you out?"

Steve shrugged. "I'm not sure… Maybe the day after tomorrow."

"Lucky you." Mike suddenly lifted his head from the pillow, trying to mask a grimace, and looked down the bed towards his daughter. "What day is it?"

Jeannie, still rubbing his foot, shrugged and looked at Steve. "I don't know… Friday…?"

"No," Mike almost growled, "not the day… the date."

Shooting a playful scowl back at him, Jeannie let go of his foot, pulled the blanket back over it, got up and left the room. The partners looked at each other and stifled a laugh. "Yikes, she's definitely your daughter," Steve chuckled.

Mike's eyebrows knit. "And what do you mean by that?"

"It's the 20th… Saturday," Jeannie announced as she came back into the room, sitting on the end of the bed again and uncovering her father's right foot.

Mike glanced guiltily at Steve, dropping his head onto the pillows then letting out a low sigh. "Damn it," he whispered under his breath. He felt Jeannie's hands tighten slightly on his foot and opened his eyes. She was staring at him questioningly. He glanced up at Steve again and took a deep breath. "Sweetheart, I am so sorry but I never got the turkey. This case started the day I was supposed to call Albert's and it slipped my mind and when I remembered it was too late and I spent hours calling all around The City – and even Oakland – trying to find one and I just… I just ran outa time, I guess…"

She had been staring at him without expression, unblinking, as he hurried through his explanation before losing steam towards the end; she could feel Steve's attention on her as well. Her veiled eyes slid slowly from her father's pleading blue ones to his partner's apprehensive green ones then slowly back to the occupant of the bed.

"Michael Stone," she began slowly, "do you honestly think I care more about a turkey right now than I do about you?"

His eyebrows, that had been raised in the hope of forgiveness, slid lower as her words sunk in. He tried a weak smile. "You mean, you're not mad at me for forgetting about the turkey?"

Her expression unchanging, her eyes travelled the small room slowly. "And just where do you think I'd cook this turkey anyway? I doubt the hospital would let me use their kitchen, and the motel just has a bathroom sink…"

It took several seconds for her sarcasm to penetrate his still slightly sluggish brain before his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. He tilted his head. "Oh, you think you're really funny, do you?" he murmured slowly, and she grinned when she saw his left leg move suddenly under the blanket as he lightly and playfully kicked her thigh.

Laughing, she reached forward and slapped his leg, beaming, and he grinned back at her chuckling. Steve joined in the laughter, and she glanced at him, relieved that he finally seemed to be truly relaxing. She knew how much they had needed to be together and how badly Steve needed to realize that he had nothing to feel guilty about. Mike could heal any emotional wounds Steve had just by the power of his presence; it was a gift they gave each other.

Mike grimaced slightly, his right hand moving towards his left shoulder as his head dropped back to the pillows, closing his eyes. Alarmed, Steve put his hand lightly on his partner's chest. "You okay?"

Eyes remaining closed. Mike nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly, with a tinge of anger. "Damn bullet," he chuckled.

Steve patted his chest. "Well, it could've been a lot worse, couldn't it?" He was staring at the older man worriedly.

Mike almost snorted a short laugh then opened his eyes. "Yeah, it sure could've…" He smiled reassuringly. "Speaking of which… sort of…" he chuckled at his own slightly derailed train of thought, "did you ever find out who shot at us? Or what happened afterwards?"

Shrugging both his shoulders and face, Steve shook his head. "No, ah, I, ah, I was kinda… you know… my attention has been, ah… elsewhere…" He raised his eyebrows quickly.

Staring at him, Mike nodded slowly. He glanced at Steve's bandaged appendage. "Yeah, I guess it was…" he said quietly but they both knew he wasn't referring to the broken arm. Staring into the soft green eyes, he raised his right hand and touched the younger man's face again.

Jeannie watched them both, once again in awe of the strength of their bond, almost jealous of their closeness. Silently, she pulled the blanket over her father's foot and slid off the bed, discreetly clearing her throat. "Um, sorry but I promised that I would get Steve back upstairs before 9. And you've got to get some sleep, Mister," she smiled at her father, laying a hand on his leg, "and, to be honest, so do I."

Both men had turned to her. Now they were nodding and smiling. "Sweetheart," Mike beckoned her closer to the head of the bed as Steve got up and moved away, taking her hand as she got closer, "thank you for all you're doing for me… for us." He included Steve in a glance. He pulled her closer to the bed and stared into her eyes. "You told me you're staying in a motel… across the street, right?"

"Umh-humh," she nodded.

He squeezed her hand. "Are you safe there? Do you feel safe walking over there in the dark?"

She grinned, laying her other hand on his forehead lovingly. "Mike, I've been there for several days already… it's very safe. A lot of other people visiting patients in here are staying there. So don't worry, okay?"

He continued to frown at her. Staring back, she allowed her hand to slide from his forehead down his rough cheek.

"We need to get you shaved, like him." She nodded over her shoulder at Steve. "I bought some shaving cream and a razor –"

"No no no," Mike said quickly, shaking his head, "it's not that I don't trust you, sweetheart," she harrumphed and he flashed a grin, "and he's useless," he nodded at Steve, who mumbled "Thanks". Mike paused slightly to acknowledge the interruption with a scowl, then continued to his daughter, "They said they're going to transfer me to a regular room tomorrow so I'll get them to make an appointment with the hospital barber… and I'll even pay for it." He finished with a 'so there' smirk.

She chuckled. "All right, that sounds good." She leaned over the bed and kissed his lips then pulled back slightly to stare into his eyes again. "I'm so happy you're going to be okay," she whispered, trying to control the trembling of her voice. She was tired, physically and emotionally, and afraid her emotions might get the better of her.

His smile was full of love and pride and he pulled her down to embrace her as best he could with his right arm. He held her for several long seconds before almost reluctantly letting her go.

She straightened up, taking his hand and gazing at him with a warm smile and bright eyes. She squeezed his hand. "I'll be back first thing in the morning. I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, sweetheart," he whispered with a catch in his throat.

Nodding, he let go of her hand and she moved to the door and the wheelchair as Steve stepped closer to the bed. He put his left hand on Mile's face again and smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow too," he said simply and the older man nodded.

The trip back to Steve's room was made in silence.

# # # # #

There was a brief knock on the door before it opened and she strode into the room carrying a large brown paper bag with a handle. He was sitting up in bed, a newspaper spread out on his lap.

"Good morning," Jeannie said brightly as she dropped the bag on the plastic visitor's chair. "You're looking good this morning. How do you feel?"

Steve looked at her with a grin. "Good, thanks."

She could see his cop's eyes surreptitiously studying the bag and she swallowed a smile. "Excellent," she said breezily, ignoring his curiosity.

He looked at her. "Did you see Mike this morning?"

"Yep, and he's still doing great. Actually, as I speak they are moving him to a room on the surgical floor and they've scheduled his operation for tomorrow morning at 10. So once he gets moved into the new room, I'll bring you there for a visit. How does that sound?"

"Sounds great. Ah," he nodded towards the bag almost reluctantly, "what have you got in there?"

"Oh, I think you know," she replied enigmatically, her eyes sliding from his face to the bag and back, trying to contain a smile.

Ducking his chin, he stared at her from under a worried brow. She started to chuckle; she knew how much pride he took in his sartorial prowess and also knew that whatever was in the bag was going to, intentionally or not, reflect his taste – or lack thereof – to the world for the foreseeable future. Or until he was capable of doing some shopping himself.

To the clothes conscious young detective, it was almost a fate worse than death.


	31. Chapter 31

"There you go, Mr. Stone," the nurse said with a smile as she tucked the sides of the blanket around his legs and feet. "Are you a bit warmer now?"

On the half raised bed, the blanket up under his chin, he smiled. "Please, call me Mike." Then he chuckled as he glanced down at himself. "I look like a mummy. But it feels great, thank you."

She patted his arm. "You're very welcome… Mike. Is there anything you need? Anything I can get for you?"

He shook his head. "No, thanks, I'm good."

"Want me to turn the TV on?" She nodded towards the small colour set hanging from a corner of the ceiling.

He frowned at her with a sad smile. "On a Sunday morning? I was told the Niners aren't playing till this afternoon."

"I think there's another game on at 10…" she teased with a chuckle. "The Eagles are in Washington… and we get the channel…"

"How do you know so much about football?" His eyes were wide and appreciative.

"My husband is a fanatic. How about you take a quick nap and I'll wake you up in time for the game?"

"Yeah, I'd like that, thank you," he sighed as he closed his eyes and allowed himself to melt into the warm bed. He heard the door close. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes again. Staring at the ceiling, he swallowed hard, his lips starting to tremble.

Ever since Jeannie and Steve had left his room last night, he couldn't shake the almost overwhelming sense of foreboding that had descended over him. And try as he might, he couldn't figure out where it was coming from… or why.

Steve was all right. Steve, who had sat on the bed beside him and touched his face and looked into his eyes. Steve, who was alive and was going to be all right; he had seen it for himself. But something was troubling him, something he couldn't determine at the moment… and he was heartsick and troubled.

He stared at the ceiling. His throat constricted and hot tears started to roll down his cheeks.

# # # # #

Jeannie picked up the paper bag and set it on the bed. She turned her expressionless face towards the bed's occupant and raised her brows. "So, do you want to see them or not?"

His skeptical eyes slid from hers to the bag and back again. He swallowed heavily then took a deep breath. "Okay…show me…" He winced slightly in anticipation.

With a dry chuckle and a shake of her head, she reached into the bag. "Well, they were able to salvage your shoes and Mike's, so you at least have your own shoes," she started, pulling the familiar brown loafers out of the bag and showing them to him before dropping them to the floor.

"Hey, careful!" he blurted out as he watched them fall, "I paid a fortune for those."

She froze him with a deadpan stare before reaching into the bag again. "They saved your belts too." She put the brown leather belt on the chair then reached back into the bag. As he watched, transfixed, she pulled out a pair of dark brown corduroy pants then took a step back and let them unfold. His eyes narrowed he reached out and touched them almost hesitantly. They were incredibly soft. His gaze shifted from the pants to her raised eyebrows and her 'I-told-you-so' smirk.

"These are gorgeous," he admitted almost reluctantly.

With a wry snort, she tossed the pants onto the bed over his legs then reached into the bag again. This time her hand came up with a subtly checked brown and white heavy cotton shirt that perfectly complemented the pants.

His eyebrows rose as she put the shirt on the bed for him to touch, which he did with a soft, "Wow…"

Chuckling, she picked up the bag and dumped the remaining contents onto his lap – a pair of dark brown socks and a package of white boxers. As she dropped the bag onto the floor, she fixed him with a pointed stare. "So… do you still question Rudy's sense of style?"

Swallowing heavily, more from embarrassment than anything else, he looked at her with chagrin. "Maybe I owe Rudy an apology…"

She started to laugh, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't worry, I didn't tell him of your fears, so he has no idea you had no faith in him. So no apology necessary, you're off the hook."

Smiling, he fingered the material of the shirt again. "This is really nice. So how much do I owe you for all this?"

Her eyebrows shot into her hairline and she chuckled. "Don't worry about it, it's on the house. Well, it's actually gonna be on Mike – he doesn't know that yet, and I might not tell him until he gets the bill." She giggled, dropping her forehead onto his shoulder briefly and he looked at her with a broad smile, which turned into a deep and genuine laugh.

She straightened up, keeping her hand on his arm, and looked into his eyes, her smile disappearing. "It's good to hear you really laugh," she said softly, "I was beginning to think I wasn't going to hear it again…"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

She stared at him for a couple of long seconds then exhaled loudly through her nose. "Ever since you woke up, you've been different." When he inclined his head, his frown deepening, she smiled sadly. "Ever since you found out Mike left the car to… well, that he left the car…" She paused and took another deep breath then said in a rush, "Steve, it's like you've been carrying this huge… burden of guilt on your shoulders, like what happened to Mike was somehow your fault. And I know Sergeant Walker talked to you about it and I know what he said to you – he told me… but you haven't been able to shake it, have you?" She was staring at him, not about to let him ignore her, no matter what.

He lowered his eyes very slowly and she saw them close. He took a couple of deep breaths. "You're right…" he said with a soft, dry snort. "You're right…"

"But why?" she almost begged for an answer. "You know you had nothing to do with what he did… you know nobody or nothing can stop him once he gets something in his sights…"

Chuckling softly, Steve nodded, still looking down.

"And you know as well as I do that he'd do anything for you, just like he'd do anything for me…" she said gently, rubbing his upper arm comfortingly, "even if it killed him…" She felt her throat constrict and she caught her breath.

He inhaled raggedly. "That's what scares me… that one day it will kill him… and it'll be my fault… and I couldn't live with that…" He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his bottom lip.

Jeannie brought her other hand to her mouth, pressing her forefinger against her upper lip to stop the trembling and the imminent tears. She tightened the fingers of her other hand around his arm. "That's not going to happen, and you know it."

He finally looked up at her. "But that's the thing, I _don't_ know it, and neither do you. We were just ambushed, Jeannie. We drove into a situation we weren't prepared for and both of us were almost killed. And it wasn't skill or experience that saved us… it was pure dumb luck…" He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. "And that's what scares me even more… What if we're not so lucky the next time…?"

She watched him silently then rubbed his arm again. "But you're still here, Steve… both of you… you both made it and you're both going to be all right… That's gotta count for something, right?" She waited for him to respond and when he didn't, she continued, "Well, I don't know about you but I can't live with the 'what if'. I can only live in the here and now, and here and now you're going to be all right and Mike's going to be all right. And if you were lucky this time, then… great. There's nothing wrong with a little luck, right? Sometimes luck wins out over skill… or experience. And when that happens you don't question it… because then it'll disappear…"

He looked up at her, frowning slightly. She thought she could see a slight softening in his taut features. "That's a little like whistling past the graveyard, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "You could call it that, but I'd call it having faith in yourself… and faith in your partner. And you know what? I don't think something like this'll ever happen again because you, both of you, are not going to let it."

His gaze had drifted away again and a silence lengthened between them. "But Jeannie, your Dad could've died out there…"

"You could've too… but you didn't… neither of you." She rubbed his arm again. "Do me a favor, will you? Stop blaming yourself for things you have no control over, like my father," she chuckled, "and embrace the things you do… like your new and, I believe, overwhelming appreciation for Rudy's sense of style."

She watched as his frown slowly turned into a smirk and he shook his head in dismay. He glanced down at the shirt in his lap then up at her again. "So just how detailed was this list that you gave him, anyway?"

She grinned. "Very!"

# # # # #

There was a soft knock on the door. Mike looked away from the TV. "Come in."

The door was pushed open and Jeannie stepped into the room, holding the door open for Steve, in a hospital bathrobe and slippers, to follow. Mike's face lit up. "Hey, they let you walk here by yourself?"

Steve smiled and nodded as Jeannie pulled the guest chair close to the head of the bed and he sat carefully, mindful not to jostle his arm too much. "Well, it was a just a short ride in the elevator and a couple of corridors, but yeah." He studied the older man for a beat. "How are you feeling?"

Mike snorted. "Well, happy to be out of the ICU, that's for sure. I'm okay. I'll be glad when they get this damn bullet out but…" He shrugged.

Steve glanced up at the TV. "Who's playing?"

"Eagles and Redskins. The Niners are playing this afternoon. Can you stay for lunch?" Mike chuckled.

Grinning, Jeannie sat on the end of the bed, continuing to keep an eye on the younger man. She knew he still wasn't his old self yet, and she knew he was continuing to deal with all the ramifications of their recent ordeal. But he was doing a good job of hiding it, and she hoped that Mike, definitely not on top of his own game at the moment, might not notice.

Steve glanced at Jeannie, knowing she had been talking to the medical staff more than he had and would be more aware of what he could and couldn't do. She nodded with a grin. "I'm sure he can. I'll tell the nurses. And hey, I have an idea. Why don't I leave you two to your game," she nodded at the TV, "and I'll find out what you can eat, Mike, and I'll go out and get it. How does that sound?"

She knew they needed time alone together and this was a perfect way to get it. Mike looked at Steve, eyebrows raised, and nodded with a smile. "That works for me. You?"

With a smile of his own and an approving shake of his head, Steve echoed, "Works for me."

Patting her father's leg, Jeannie got up and crossed to the head of the bed. "I have to go back to your room for my coat," she said to Steve. "Is there anything you want me to get you before I leave the building?"

He smiled up at her gratefully. "No, thanks, I'm okay."

With a nod, she turned to her father and bent down to give him a kiss. He reached up to gently touch the side of her face. "Enjoy yourselves," she chuckled as she crossed to the door and left.

A deep silence settled over the room, both men turning their attention to the small coloured TV high up in the corner. "What's the score?" Steve asked.

"Fourteen zip for Philly," Mike answered, not taking his eyes from the screen.

Steve snorted. "I guess it wasn't the Redskins year."

"No, I guess not."

They watched the game silently for a couple of minutes. Steve surreptitiously looked at his partner, who was staring with almost deliberate intent at the screen. He swallowed nervously, hoping he was successfully hiding his own discomfort.

Then, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, he reached out and put his left hand on his partner's right forearm, and squeezed.


	32. Chapter 32

About an hour later, Jeannie pushed the door open and breezed into the room with an armful of paper and plastic bags of various sizes. Both men tore their eyes from the TV to look her way, Steve taking his hand off his partner's arm and sitting up in the chair a little straighter.

She slid to a stop and did a double take. "What happened to your chair?" she asked, confused.

"Oh," Steve chuckled as he got to his feet, reaching out to take something from her, "ah, one of the nurses thought I might be more comfortable sitting on this." He nodded at the well worn but comfy looking overstuffed mustard coloured chair that had replaced the hard white plastic one. "She had the janitors take it out of storage…"

Smiling and nodding with a knowing wink, Mike whispered loudly to his daughter, "One of the gorgeous young nurses…"

She sniggered, ignoring Steve's outstretched hand as she crossed to the end of the bed and dropped the bags; Mike, watching the exchange with delight, moved his legs quickly out of the way. "So what did you do? Bat your eyes at her? Smile like puppy dog? Ask her out on a date?"

Mike laughed suddenly and loudly, then caught himself and cleared his throat, his eyes snapping back to the TV but having a hard time containing his grin.

After shooting his partner a snarky look, Steve's attention resettled on the young woman who had turned her back on him and pulled the overbed table closer. She began to take cardboard-and-aluminum cartons out of a large white plastic bag.

"I'll have you know," he began defensively, "that it was all her idea. I think she took pity on me. And besides… she's married."

Jeannie spun to face him accusingly, her voice dripping with droll enthusiasm. "Ah ha! And how did you find that out? Nurses aren't allowed to wear rings so… what? Did you ask her?"

Caught, Steve sucked his teeth as he sat back on the comfy chair, clearing his throat lightly. "As a matter of fact, I did," he said succinctly, dropping his head and not meeting her stare.

She glared at the top of his head. "Ha, thought so!" she chortled as she turned back to the bags, catching her father's eye, winking and sharing a grin.

Mike was relieved by the badinage. He knew Jeannie was just pulling Steve's chain, like an annoying little sister. It was something she had done many times over the years, and somehow he always fell for it. But he was concerned. For the first time, it seemed, in the more than the five years they had been partners, the hour they had just spent together had passed in almost complete silence. The disquiet that he had felt earlier hadn't gone away; in fact, it was getting stronger, and he was trying every trick he knew to keep his daughter and his partner, both of whom knew him almost better than he knew himself, from seeing it.

He sniffed the air. "So what did you get us?" he asked with a chuckle, glancing at a suitably chastised Steve out of the corner of his eye.

She had stacked three round cardboard-and-aluminum containers on the small rolling table, along with three packets of plastic cutlery, napkins and salt and pepper, which she opened. From one of the paper bags, she started to take out large drink cups with lids and straws. She glanced at her father with a smile. "I got us these amazing club sandwiches from this mom-and-pop diner down the street – one of the nurses recommended it." She took the lid off the top container and the mouthwatering smell of fresh French fries filled the room.

Mike closed his eyes, dropping his head back onto the pillow with a blissful smile, and sighed. "Ahhhhh, that smells wonderful…."

"Oh my god, it sure does," Steve agreed, getting to his feet slowly. "Can I help?"

Jeannie glanced over her shoulder at his bandaged arm but refrained from the sarcastic retort that was on the tip of her tongue. She knew it was time to let him off the hook. "Sure," she said warmly, "why don't you set this up for Mike," she nodded at the overbed, "and I'll transfer our stuff to the table, okay?"

"Sounds good to me."

Jeannie glanced at her father again as she continued setting things up. "I thought you'd arranged to get a shave?" she asked with raised eyebrows,

Mike reached up and rubbed his right hand over the lengthy stubble on his chin. "I did. The barber doesn't work on Sundays, for some reason… I guess they only have one…"

"Like I said, I'll do it –" she started innocently.

"No!" he almost roared, and both younger people laughed.

Steve looked back and forth between father and daughter, who were locked in a brief Stone glare standoff. He remembered Mike's story of Jeannie's first, and only, attempt at giving him a shave when he broke his right wrist years ago. The fifteen-year-old had given it a valiant try, but Mike had had to show up at work to jokes about 'death by a thousand cuts'.

With a harrumph, Jeannie turned back to the food. "Oh, there's some ketchup packets still in the bag." She picked up the two unopened containers and set them on the bedside table while Steve moved the overbed closer to his partner. She pulled the plastic chair beside the overstuffed one and watched as Steve reseated himself, picking up one of the containers and putting it on his lap.

She set one of the drink cups on the floor at his feet. "Your Coke, sir." Leaving a cup on the overbed table for Mike, she took the third one and sat in the plastic chair, reaching for her own sandwich. Glancing up at the bed, she froze. "Oh my god, Mike, sorry, I'll open those ketchup –"

"No, no, I've got it," he said quickly with a grin, putting one corner of a packet between his teeth and tearing the corner off then expertly squeezing the ketchup onto the fries with one hand before taking the torn edge from his mouth and dropping both pieces on the table. He turned to her with a triumphant grin. "See? I've had a lot of practice over the years."

With an affectionate chuckle she sat back, glancing at Steve, who was also grinning. He had a section of sandwich in his hand and had already taken a bite. "Oh my god, Jeannie, this is delicious. Thanks…"

"You're welcome. It looks good, doesn't it?" She was studying the sandwich in her own hand.

"The fries are wonderful," they both heard from above them and glanced up to see Mike chewing through a close-mouthed grin, his eyebrows raised.

Chuckling, Jeannie sat back, ready to enjoy a delicious lunch with her two favourite men. She had been too busy, and distracted, to notice the tension in the room, and both men wanted to make sure she never did.

# # # # #

Jeannie put her empty aluminum container into the paper bag. "Well, that was a big success, I see," she chuckled as she glanced at her father who was staring at her with a wide, satiated smile.

"You did good, kid," he laughed gently, winking at her.

She reached over to pick up his empty container as Steve got up and held his out. "Thanks, Jeannie, that really hit the spot. I needed that."

"So did I," her father echoed.

"Well," she said slowly, "neither of you have seen what I found us for dessert yet."

As she reached for the small paper bag that was still lying on the bed, she heard Mike moan, "Dessert? Jeannie, I don't have any room. I ate the rest of your fries, remember? You trying to get me fat or something?"

Ignoring his diatribe, she spread a napkin on the overbed then opened the paper bag, tilted it and let its contents slide out: six large chocolate chip cookies. She watched as both men stared raptly, and rather comically, at the delicious treat. She knew chocolate wasn't one of her father's favourite flavours, but for some reason chocolate chip cookies were one of his weaknesses. Her mother made great ones but she hadn't, as yet, perfected the recipe.

"Where did you find those…?" Mike asked almost breathlessly.

"They're called 'Famous Amos' and they're from –"

"Los Angeles," Steve interrupted and she looked at him, frowning in surprise.

He chuckled self-consciously. "Sorry, uh, yeah, I read about these. This black guy, an agent for the William Morris Agency of all places… he learned to bake from his aunt. And he opened this store… and named it after himself…" He looked at his partner and shrugged, almost embarrassed that he knew so much about cookies. Mike's look was pure, unadulterated, amused pride, and Steve chuckled awkwardly again.

"You never cease to amaze me, buddy boy," Mike laughed warmly, falling back on the sobriquet he now rarely used. "So, uh, have you ever had one?"

"No, I thought they were only available in L.A."

"Well, so did I," explained Jeannie, "but they had some in this specialty shop near the diner and I just couldn't resist. They smelled so good…" She picked two of them up and put them back in the paper bag. "Gentlemen, I am going to leave you to your _second_ football game," she shook her head in disbelief and with a chuckle, "and I am going to spend the afternoon wandering the neighborhood." She started to gather up the garbage left over from their lunch. "Enjoy the cookies at your leisure… and I'll see you both for dinner. Any requests?" she turned to them with raised eyebrows.

Mike glanced at Steve and shook his head. "No, no, you… you have good instincts, sweetheart…"

Steve was nodding. "Carte blanche…"

"Good," she nodded firmly then took a step closer to the bed to kiss her father. "You two have a good afternoon, and I'll see you later." She picked up the plastic bag of garbage and started for the door, then stopped, leaned over and kissed Steve on the cheek. Without waiting for a response, she continued to the door and yanked it open. "Go Niners!" she yelled over her shoulder as she disappeared into the hallway.

The partners exchange smiles and chuckles then Mike looked towards the cookies and raised his eyebrows with a facial shrug. Laughing gently, Steve lifted himself slightly so he could pick up one of the cookies.

The first bite was heaven.

# # # # #

Mike raised the remote control and thumbed the volume off. "Well, the Niners better get their act together or they're gonna lose another one," he growled.

"Yeah… yeah, I guess it isn't their year either," Steve chuckled.

The cookies were long gone and Mike had pushed the rolling table to the end of the bed. Steve was slumped in the chair; both of them had drifted off during the first half of the game, one of the aftereffects of a big lunch and the fact they were both still recovering. But when they had been awake, they had remained silent again, and they both knew this was not normal.

The older man turned his head slightly, looking at Steve from the corner of his eye. The younger man was staring straight ahead, his gaze unfocused. Uncharacteristically, neither man wanted to talk, or so it seemed.

Mike closed his eyes and let his head sink back into the pillow. He heard Steve clear his throat lightly.

"Mike, ah… listen, ah," his partner began slowly, almost embarrassed to be breaking the silence, "can I ask you a question?"

Opening his eyes, Mike turned his head on the pillow; Steve was looking at him, his brow furrowed slightly. "Of course…"

The younger man looked away briefly then asked softly, "What's the last thing you remember… when we were in the car?"

Not anticipating that question, Mike inclined his head slightly on the pillow, frowning. "The last thing…?"

"Umh-humh…"

Mike looked at the ceiling, thinking. "I don't know…" he began slowly, "I haven't really given it much thought yet… I've been trying to let everything come back, you know, on it's own…" His eyes returned to the younger man. "Why?


	33. Chapter 33

Mike's brow had furrowed as he stared into the familiar green eyes meeting his own evenly and expressionlessly.

With a slight smile, Steve shook his head and glanced away briefly. "Ah, no… no reason," he said softly, "I was just wondering…"

Not sure what to think, but not believing the sudden deflection, Mike waited a second before asking, "What do _you_ remember?"

The smile getting a little wider, Steve snorted. "Butch and Sundance."

Mike chuckled, hoping he was hiding his concern. "Me too… well, that and the damn cold. I don't think I've ever felt that cold in my life -" He stopped himself and rolled his eyes. "What am I saying, of course I've never been that cold before…" He laughed gently at himself and Steve joined in, but they both knew it was a cover for the terrifying truth about what they had just survived.

In an attempt to lighten the suddenly dark and unnerving turn in their conversation, Mike grinned. "Remember that… oh, what was it? The, ah, the Chapel of the…? Oh, you know…" He looked at his partner for help, grimacing as he tried to remember.

Steve smiled. "The Chapel of the Mind."

"That's it," Mike crowed, snapping his fingers, "Chapel of the Mind… sheesh, how could I forget…" He rolled his eyes again, chuckling. "Anyway…" he wagged his index finger at the younger man, "do you remember me telling you then that I get frostbite easy? You didn't believe me, did ya?" His look was almost smug and the younger man couldn't resist a pursed lipped, disbelieving smirk.

"Yeah, well, you didn't get frostbite, did you? Not then and not now." He finished with a sharp nod.

Mike's head inclined slightly. "Well, no…" he acquiesced slowly then fell silent for several long seconds. The reality of how close they had come to succumbing to the cold was a sobering thought for them both and they briefly retreated into their own worlds.

Finally Mike began to smile and he snorted softly. Steve looked up at him. The snort turned into a chuckle then an almost full-throated laugh. Steve's brow furrowed and he cocked his head. "What?"

The older man seemed to get a loose grip on his mirth and raised his eyebrows, his shoulders continuing to shake silently. "Well, maybe not frostbite," he chortled quietly, "but almost a popsicle, wouldn't you say?"

Steve's eyebrows shot up in surprise then he frowned as his jaw dropped slightly. "You're insane, you know that? This isn't something to joke about…" he growled, shaking his head. There was no sign of a smile and Mike's died quickly on his lips.

"Oh, come on, lighten up. Besides, it was me it happened to, not you… remember?" Mike tried to cajole his partner, realizing he might have made a mistake with his wan attempt to lighten the mood.

Steve's eyes suddenly bored into his. "Yeah, and that's what I want to know… why did your temperature go so much lower than mine…?"

Mike paused momentarily, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"I mean how come I woke up so much sooner than you did? How come your body temperature was so much lower than mine if we were in the same car together?"

Mike shook his head uncomprehendingly. "What are you driving at, buddy boy?" he asked quietly, his tone suddenly serious.

Steve shifted slightly in the chair to face him even more. "They found you outside the car… don't you know that?" He hesitated, expecting a response; all he got was a confused stare. "Why did you leave the car, Mike? That's all I want to know… Why did you leave the car?" His voice had faded to a whisper but his eyes burned into the older man's unrelentingly.

Eventually Mike started to slowly shake his head; he almost looked lost. "I don't know, Steve… I don't. You have to believe me… I don't remember doing that, I really don't…" There was a pleading tone in his voice that his partner had never heard before, and it was disturbing.

An uneasy silence lengthened between them. Then Mike snorted softly, "That's why you asked me what was the last thing I remember… isn't it?" He was staring fiercely at his young partner. "You want to know if I left the car deliberately to… what? To save us?... To save you?"

Not backing down from the intense scrutiny, Steve nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said simply, "that's what I want to know."

After several tense seconds in which neither of them moved or blinked, Mike's face softened and he closed his eyes with a sad sigh. "One of the doctors told me that in the final stages of hypothermia, your brain is so… unresponsive that most people just want to lie down, close their eyes and go to sleep. The body starts to shut down very slowly. You can't think straight and you start to function, if you can function at all, on pure instinct." He shrugged slightly and raised his eyebrows. "If I left the car –"

"You did leave the car," Steve stated, quickly and flatly.

"Okay, all right," Mike said calmly and soothingly, " _when_ I left the car… which, I say again, I don't remember doing…" he shrugged sadly once more, "maybe it _was_ out of instinct… or self-preservation… or I don't know what because I don't remember doing it… and that's the truth, Steve, whether you want to believe it or not…"

The younger man dropped his head and sighed heavily but didn't say anything.

After several seconds, Mike offered quietly, "Why is it so important to you whether I left the car deliberately or not?"

Not looking up, the younger man shrugged. "I don't know," Mike heard him whisper, "I really don't know… but it does…"

The older man smiled to himself, his throat constricting. "Well, I wish I could tell you… but I can't… I don't even know myself… I'm sorry…" He watched as the younger man nodded slowly, still looking at the floor. "Look, ah…" he continued softly, "maybe I thought… I don't know… maybe I thought I could find somebody to help us… and I probably didn't even realize how bad off I was…" He paused and took a deep breath. "But I'm sure I wasn't… I wasn't sacrificing myself for you… if that's what you think… if that's what's bothering you…" His voice was soft and gentle, almost a whisper.

His head still down, Steve pressed his eyes closed, inhaling deeply and raggedly. Reaching up blindly, his left hand found his partner's right forearm, then wrapped his fingers tightly around the older man's hand. Mike squeezed back. After several seconds, he shook Steve's hand slightly. "I'm sorry I scared you…" he breathed, "I never want to do that… ever… you know that, right?"

He could feel as well as see Steve nod his still down-turned head. He knew the younger man was obsessing on the guilt he'd be dealing with if Mike had made the ultimate sacrifice, even if it was unintentional.

After a long minute, Steve's head began to come up slowly. Dry-eyed, he stared at his partner for several seconds before he said softly, "You know, I don't know which is worse… thinking you did it deliberately… or that you didn't know what you were doing…?"

Mike snorted mirthlessly with a gentle smile. "Well, whichever it was, I'm still here…"

Mirroring the soft smile, Steve nodded. "Yeah… yeah, you sure are…"

They stared at each other for a long beat then Mike cleared his throat self-consciously, his eyes flicking towards the TV. "Hey, ah," he said raggedly, with a valiant attempt at a chuckle, "the, ah, the second half's gonna start."

With a loving snort, knowing the older man was trying to change the mood, Steve squeezed his hand again then released it and sat back. Mike picked up the remote lying on the bed near his hand and thumbed the volume button. The sudden sound of the play-by-play announcers yelling above the roaring crowd instantly filled the silent room. But the two pairs of eyes that were riveted to the screen neither saw and heard.

# # # # #

Jeannie pushed the door open a little after 6 o'clock, her arms once more loaded with paper and plastic bags, and stopped abruptly, taking in the scene before her. The TV was still on, to a local Sacramento news broadcast, and both her father and Steve, slouched in the chair, were sound asleep. Quietly stepping deeper into the room, she allowed the door to close noiselessly behind her, hesitating as she decided what to do.

She had just started to turn to leave the room when she heard Mike's soft voice. "Jeannie…?" She looked at the bed; he was staring at her through sleepy eyes and she smiled lovingly.

He cleared his throat and raised his head slightly as she crossed closer to the bed. He chuckled self-consciously, glancing at Steve, who was beginning to stir as well. "I guess we fell asleep…"

Her gaze taking in the younger man, who was struggling, it seemed, to rouse himself and sit up a little straighter, she laughed, "Wow, that must have been one boring game."

Mike's eyes narrowed and he smirked before smiling. "So what did you get yourself up to… while we were sleeping…?"

She leaned down and gave him a quick kiss before circling the big chair to the foot of the bed where she deposited her burden of bags. "I checked out the neighborhood and I got us some dinner. Don't forget, Mike, this is going to be your last meal till after your operation tomorrow morning."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't remind me…"

Steve had managed to sit up and was watching the exchange with a slight smile.

"So who won?" Jeannie asked as she started unpacking the bags.

Behind her back, the partners exchanged an embarrassed look. It was Mike who started to chuckle first. "We have no idea…"

# # # # #

"Well, well, well, look at you… I think you look great."

Jeannie was sitting on the edge of the bed; Steve had just emerged from the bathroom having changed into the recently purchased clothes. He had been staring down at himself and now looked up into her approving eyes. He tilted his head and shrugged. "Okay, yes, you were right. Rudy did a great job," he chuckled softly.

"Ha!" she cackled as she slid off the bed, "you bet your sweet -… you bet he did," she finished with a laugh when he shot her a look. She glanced at her watch. "Okay, let's get ready, the orderly with the wheelchair should be here soon." She picked up his watch from the bedside table. "Here, hold out your arm."

He did so. As she fastened the watch on his wrist, she glanced up into his face. She had been well aware, since she'd returned to Mike's room last night, that all was not well between the partners. But she was wise enough to realize that whatever it was, it was going to have to be sorted out between them and them alone. So all she could do right now was to be there for both of them.

Steve glanced at the watch when she finished. 9:10. He frowned slightly; he knew Mike was being prepped for surgery at 10. He wanted to get the paperwork for his release over and done with so he could go to the Surgical waiting room.

"Speaking of Rudy," Jeannie offered as she put the shaving gear in a plastic bag, "he should be here anytime now. And just so you know, he's bringing you a coat. He couldn't get into your place, of course, but he has my key and he's bringing back a coat for Mike and one for you. It'll be a little big, of course, but at least you'll have something…"

There was a hard rap on the door and it opened slightly. It was the orderly with the wheelchair.

# # # # #

Steve was sitting in the hard plastic chair, cradling his right arm in his left. His head was back against the wall and his eyes were closed. He had glanced at his watch again just moments ago; time was crawling, it seemed.

Jeannie, trying to harness her own anxiety, had excused herself a few minutes earlier, heading off without a word.

He heard footsteps approaching and opened his eyes. Jeannie, with a cup of coffee in each hand and broad smile, was crossing the room with Rudy Olsen in her wake. "Hey, look who I found wandering the corridors?" she chuckled as she handed Steve one of the cups.

He leaned forward to get to his feet but the older man waved him down. "Don't get up, for God's sake," Olsen chuckled as he dropped into the chair beside his young detective. Jeannie sat on the other side, taking the lid off her coffee. "Here, let me help you," the captain continued gently, wrapping one hand over Steve's around the cup and pulling the lid off.

"Thanks." He took a grateful sip.

"You're looking pretty good, son. How are you feeling?"

Steve managed to find a reassuring smile. "I feel good, Rudy. Coming along."

"Good, good… So, ah… have you heard anything?" Olsen asked, glancing down the hallway towards the operating theatres.

With an almost apologetic half-smile towards Jeannie, Steve shook his head. "Not yet but it's still early."

Nodding, Olsen sat back. He patted Jeannie's knee with an encouraging smile as the three worried people continued their wait.


	34. Chapter 34

A beaming Doctor Tenney, still wearing his operating room scrubs, crossed the waiting room towards them briskly. All three got to their feet, Olsen putting a hand on Steve's good elbow to help him up.

"Miss Stone," Tenney said cheerfully, focusing on Jeannie after his eyes briefly flickered over the two men with her, "you can relax, everything went perfectly. Your dad's in Recovery and he'll be moved back into his room in a couple of hours."

Jeannie looked up, closing her eyes and sighing heavily. "Thank god." From the corner of her eye she saw similar reactions from the others. "Oh, uh, Doctor, this is Steve Keller, my dad's partner, and Rudy Olsen, their boss," she finished with a chuckle as Olsen stuck his hand out.

"Dr. Tenney. Great to meet you," he said as he shook Olsen's hand, including Steve in his smile. He nodded at the arm. "How's the wing?"

Surprised by the question, Steve frowned slightly then smiled. "It's doing great…" he answered hesitantly. "But I thought it was Dr. Conrad… wasn't it…?"

"Yeah, yeah," Tenney said quickly, "it was Conrad. He's a golfing buddy. Anyway, he told me all about it… all those stitches… yikes!" He bobbed his eyebrows quickly with a pretend grimace.

Nodding grimly, Steve chuckled. "Yeah, yikes is right. But I'm doing great, thanks for asking."

Tenney looked at Jeannie. "Well, I better get back to my patient. Just wanted to give you the good news in person. I'll see you later." And with a nod at all three, he walked away.

They looked at each other, then Olsen put his arm around Jeannie and squeezed as they all smiled in relief.

# # # # #

"Hey, hey," Steve said warmly as he led the way into Mike's room a little over two hours later. Jeannie had waved him ahead of her at the door, still unsure of what was going on between them but absolutely certain that something definitely was amiss. "You're looking pretty good for a guy who just had a bullet removed from his chest."

"My back, actually," Mike answered with a chuckle, "but close enough. So you're out?" he asked as he eyed the new clothes approvingly.

Noticing the look, with a quick laugh Steve nodded. "Yeah, a couple of hours ago. I've yet to actually leave the building though."

Mike nodded almost self-consciously. Then his eyes widened as he spied his daughter lingering near the door, waiting patiently for the partners to have their moment. She moved quickly to the bed to give him a kiss.

"How're you feeling, Daddy?"

"Good, good," he assured her. "Well, I can't feel a thing right now actually, so I'm sure that's going to change."

"I bet it is," she smiled sympathetically, glancing at Steve then back at her father. "So, we have a couple of things we want to discuss with you."

Frowning, Mike glanced from his daughter to his partner and back. "What things?"

"Well, first off, Rudy's back and he brought you and Steve some heavy coats for the trip home… and that's what's going to be a problem."

"Why is that a problem?"

"Well," she said with a wry smile, "today's the 22nd, and they're not going to let you out for at least a couple of days, which makes it the 24th, at the earliest. And if they want to keep you another day…"

"Then that would make it Christmas Day…" Mike finished for her, punctuating the statement with a frustrated sigh. "I'm sorry, sweetheart…"

"Mike, you have nothing to be sorry about, it's not your fault," she assured him quickly with a warm chuckle. She squeezed his arm as she glanced up at Steve. "I'm just glad I'm taking you both home."

His eyes flicked up to his partner's and they both smiled self-consciously. "Well, when you put it that way…" Mike said lightly, turning his attention back to his daughter with a loving chuckle. "So what do you suggest?"

Smiling broadly, she said, "Well, we can either drive home on Christmas Day, which I'm not too keen on even though it's a relatively short trip, or we stay here on Christmas Day, drive home the next day, and celebrate our own Christmas on the weekend. How does that sound?" She looked from one partner to the other.

Mike stared at Steve, his eyes narrowing. "I have a feeling you voted already, am I right?"

The younger man grinned and raised his eyebrows before nodding. "I went with Door Number Two, having our own Christmas next weekend."

Mike's eyes travelled to his daughter, who just smiled back at him enigmatically.

"So am I the tie-breaker or does my vote make it unanimous?"

"My lips are sealed," Jeannie chuckled, miming locking her lips closed.

Mike snorted. "Great… well, I kinda like option number two too – I mean, as well," he chuckled and they both joined in. "But, ah…" he looked at her apologetically again, "what are we going to do about a turkey?"

She winked and patted his arm. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it; a solution is already in the works."

His smile melted away and he stared at her through narrowed eyes and with pursed lips. "Ha ha ha," he intoned dryly as Steve struggled not to laugh. "Don't forget, young lady, that you're talking to an invalid here…" he whined petulantly as she sighed theatrically and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, right," she nodded quickly, then leaned over the bed and kissed his cheek.

Laughing warmly, he reached up with his right hand, pulled her head closer once more to plant a kiss on her lips then released her with an affectionate growl. "I can think of another small problem with all this…" he sighed with raised eyebrows.

She frowned at him, glancing at Steve. "What problem?"

"Sweetheart, once we got started on this case, it just took on a life of its own. Not only did I not get a turkey, I haven't got you… either of you," his eyes flicked to his partner, "your Christmas presents yet. I thought I was going to have lots of time."

"Me too," Steve added confessionally.

With a sigh and a loving smile, Jeannie cocked her head. "Okay, you two, do you really think I care more about presents than the both of you? You have to know that the best present I could get this year is both of you back… in relatively one piece," she finished with a chuckle, trying to keep all maudlin tones out of the conversation.

Mike stared at his daughter for a long second, unable to stop the tears that had sprung to his eyes. Blinking quickly, he reached up again to pull her down for another kiss. As she straightened up, he looked past her to Steve. "You said there were a couple of things you wanted to talk to me about… What's the other?"

Jeannie glanced at Steve and took a step back so he could move closer to the bed. Mike frowned. Noticing, the younger man said quickly, "No no no, don't worry, it's nothing bad. Like Jeannie said, Rudy's here, and he's gonna be here for a couple of days so-"

"He's not staying here for Christmas too, is he?" Mike asked anxiously. He knew the captain had grandchildren he doted on and didn't get to see very often.

Steve fixed his partner with a stern glare. "Would you let me finish?" he asked calmly and firmly, with a brief but annoyed smile.

Suitably chastised, Mike closed his mouth and frowned.

After taking a noticeable breath, Steve began again. "So he's going to be here for a couple of days and he thought that you and I would like to have a meeting with Chief Powell and a couple of the other cops and be brought up to speed on everything that happened at the three properties after… well, after our little incident…" He paused and let everything he had just said sink in. "So… would you like to do that?"

Mike's frown turned into a smirk. "What do you think?" he asked dryly and the younger man chuckled, smiling.

"That's what I thought so I told him yes. He's arranging it all for, hopefully, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Mike asked sharply. "Wow, they work fast." He knew trying to get officers free to go to another city on such short notice was problematic. "What if, uh…?" he asked with raised eyebrows, his right hand going to his still bandaged left shoulder.

Steve smiled knowingly. "I knew you'd be okay," he said softly, holding Mike's questioning stare for a long silent moment as he watched the older man's eyes brighten again. Then he grinned. "Besides," he continued, "there's a Sergeant Walker that really wants to meet you."

"Sergeant Walker?"

Steve nodded, bobbing his eyebrows. "He's the Vacaville cop we were on the radio with when we were in the car, remember?"

Mike nodded slowly, his eyes unfocusing as he struggled to recall. "Right, yeah, him…"

Waiting for a beat for the older man to look back at him, Steve said, "He, ah, he came to visit us in here… while you were, uh, you were still unconscious… He was one of the guys that found us… and found you…"

Mike snorted mirthlessly, blinking quickly as his eyes clouded. He cleared his throat. "Then I guess we owe him one, right…?" he said softly as he felt Steve's hand on his arm and a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah, I guess we do…" Steve almost whispered as everything they had been through came flooding back and his grip on his partner's arm tightened.

After giving them a few seconds to deal with the sudden rush of emotion, Jeannie discreetly cleared her throat then stepped closer to them both. "Listen, ah, Daddy, the doctor told us we shouldn't tire you out, so we better get out of here and let you get some sleep. I want to make sure you're strong enough to actually go home in a few days, right?"

He smiled drowsily, starting to look tired, then nodded, blinking slowly. "You're right… and I want to go home, that's for sure…"

She smiled lovingly, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "Good. Okay, well, we'll get out of here and let you rest. But we'll be back to bring you dinner, okay?"

"I'd like that…"

She kissed him again then moved towards the door. Steve took a step closer to the bed. "I'll see you later," he said softly with a gentle smile.

As he turned to leave, Mike said lightly, "Hey, I like the new clothes. Jeannie get those for you?"

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. "Rudy, believe it or not. And he bought some for you too." He had reached the door that Jeannie was holding open and, as he disappeared through it, pointed at the bed with a wink.

As the door closed softly in their wake, Mike looked at the ceiling, frowning. "Rudy…?"

# # # # #

Steve glanced at his watch. "They should be here soon," he sighed, looking towards the bed again. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

Mike opened his eyes and turned his head. "I'm fine, for the thirtieth time," he intoned pedantically from under a lowered brow.

The previous night's dinner had been a rather quick and uncomfortable episode. After the anesthetic had worn off, Mike had been in more discomfort than he had anticipated and even upping his meds hadn't seemed to help. He'd had no appetite for anything, let alone the deliciously mouth-watering lasagna that Jeannie and Rudy had brought for them all, and his visitors had left soon after arriving. As Mike struggled to sleep despite the ache in his chest, they had solemnly returned to the motel and a troubled night.

But Jeannie had been heartened earlier that morning when her father had greeted her with a broad smile, assuring her he had actually gotten a pretty good night's sleep and was feeling much better.

And now he and his partner were waiting to find out how and why they had been ambushed, and what had happened after they'd been rescued.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Steve looked at the bed, and they exchanged encouraging but slightly apprehensive looks as he got to his feet and opened the door.


	35. Chapter 35

Steve opened the door to a smiling Chief Powell, who strode into the room, hat in hand, when the SFPD inspector took a step back to make way. Powell was followed by a grinning Sergeant Walker and a large Hispanic man, in a State Police uniform, that neither San Francisco detective recognized. Captain Olsen brought up the rear, nodding genially to Steve as he entered then stood out of the way near the door when it closed.

Moving closer to the bed, Powell looked from Steve to Mike and shook his head in relief, exhaling loudly. "Holy hell, is it ever good to see you two again," he laughed, holding out his hand for Steve to shake then realizing his mistake with an embarrassed chuckle, opting instead for an avuncular slap on the smaller man's left shoulder.

"Chief Powell," Steve smiled and nodded in salutation.

The older man had started to turn towards the bed when he swung back. "Calvin, please, Steve…" He stepped to the bed, eyeing the smiling Mike with another shake of his head. "I hear we came pretty close to losing you, didn't we?"

Mike tried to hide the wince the chief's words elicited; his eyes briefly snapped to his partner and he saw Steve freeze almost imperceptibly as the younger man faced Walker and they exchanged an awkward but heartfelt handshake. Mike smiled warmly up at Powell. "I'm still here and hopefully going home soon," he chuckled.

Walker approached the bed and held out his right hand. "Lieutenant Stone, I'm Sergeant Walker. It's an honor to finally meet you, sir. I was the guy talking to you two on the radio that night."

Mike took his hand and shook it as vigorously as he could. "I hear we owe you big time, Sergeant. And I can't thank you enough for not giving up…"

"Well, sir, we knew you were out there, we just had to find you."

"Mike, Sergeant… call me Mike, okay?"

"If you call me Dean, sir."

Chuckling, Mike nodded. "It's a deal."

Powell had moved to stand near their third visitor. "Mike, Steve," he began with nods, "this is Officer Javier Rios of the CSP. He and his partner were the second car on the scene that night and Rios was actually the guy who found you, Mike."

Rios, who had already shaken Steve's left hand, approached the bed. "Like Dean said, sir, it's a pleasure and an honor to meet you," he said formally, shaking Mike's hand, "and it's good to see you doing so well, sir."

Swallowing heavily, Mike nodded, slipping his hand from the tall, dark-haired cop's. "It's an honor to meet you as well, Officer Rios, and, on behalf of my partner, my daughter and myself, to have the opportunity to thank you to your face. We will be eternally grateful for your diligence." He raised his index finger. "And it's –"

"Mike. Yes, sir, I know," Rios grinned shyly, turning his service cap nervously in his hands. "My friends call me Jay."

"Then Jay it is," Mike said with a sharp nod and a grin.

"Thank you," Rios said quietly, "and, ah, just so you know, Dean and I were only two of the officers involved in the search and your recovery that night. It was an interdepartmental operation and, thankfully, a success."

Mike snorted. "We don't get enough of those, do we?" Powell led the chorus of agreeable nods and grunts before grabbing one of the hard plastic chairs that were stacked against the wall, pulling it free and setting it down near the bed.

The others did the same until all five were sitting in a semi-circle facing the bed, Steve at the head near his partner and Olsen beside him. Chief Powell glanced around the group then faced the two San Francisco detectives. "So, ah, I guess the floor is ours, right? Well, we've got a lot to tell you… so where do you want to start?"

Mike and Steve exchanged a look and the older man nodded. Steve faced Powell; they had already discussed what they wanted, and needed, to know, so he was ready for the question. He inhaled deeply and nodded. "Well, I guess our first question is who shot us?" he asked simply.

Walker and Rios looked at Powell, who met Steve's stare evenly. "Fair enough, but I just want to back up a little, if that's okay. That night, well, almost morning really, after we got you two into the ambulance and on the way here, Officer Rios and the other men at the scene, and myself, we went to the farmhouse… that third location… right then and there. We didn't want whoever did this to you to get away, even though it was hours later but we thought, well, with the fog and everything, maybe they were just as trapped as you guys had been. And we were right… the shooter was still there."

Steve and Mike glanced at each other, both of them subconsciously holding their breaths.

"It was The Reverend Jimmy Scott."

Steve dropped his head and closed his eyes as Mike's jaw dropped slightly. Before either of them could say anything, Powell continued, "He didn't give us any resistance… he was already dead… he killed himself."

Steve's head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. "He killed himself?"

Powell nodded.

Mike was shaking his head slowly. "I don't understand… we were told Scott was spotted in The City…"

"He was," Powell continued to nod, "and we think we've figured out what happened. Jay?" He turned to Rios, who nodded before leaning forward and focusing his attention on the two injured detectives.

"We've been able to corroborate that Scott was, indeed, in San Francisco on the dates you were aware of, but then at some point he returned to that third property… possibly to lie low until the furor over Kowalczyk's murder died down… or, as we're starting to believe, to eventually kill himself when he realized that he had no other way out." He exhaled loudly. "You guys just, ah, well… you happened to stumble onto him at the wrong time, I guess…"

Mike snorted dryly. "Lucky us." Steve glanced at him with a brief sad smile. "What did he use?"

"A Thompson Submachine gun," Powell stated flatly.

Steve sat up abruptly as Mike's eyebrows rose sharply. "A Tommy gun? Where the hell did he get a Tommy gun?"

"You read his file, didn't you, Mike?" Powell asked. "His father –"

"Was a World War Two vet. Yeah, I read that. What, his dad brought one home from the war?"

The chief shook his head. "Not that we can find but we're checking to see if there's a record of him buying one at some point. I doubt there's a record anywhere. But however he got his hands on one, well, when he died, I guess his son took it."

"If he used a Tommy gun," Steve asked slowly, "then how come he didn't keep firing at us as we backed away… I mean, we were sitting ducks…"

Powell almost smiled. "You guys were lucky, I guess, if you could call it… it fell prey, let's say, to one of its weaknesses…" He looked at Mike with raised eyebrows; he knew Mike was an ex-Marine and WWII vet himself.

Steve looked at his partner, whose face suddenly softened in realization.

"It jammed…" Mike said quietly. "It jammed, didn't it?"

Powell nodded gently.

Mike looked down, shaking his head slowly. "God damn it…" He felt Steve's hand on his arm and a comforting squeeze.

Powell cleared his throat and both partners looked at him, frowning. "He, ah, he must have gotten it… unjammed… because when we got there…" He dropped his head momentarily and took a deep breath. "There were unspent shells on the floor and he, ah… he'd put it under his chin…"

Mike and Steve froze; Mike's eyes narrowed and he inclined his head; Steve leaned forward slightly and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "He killed himself with the Tommy gun?"

Powell nodded. "He was lying on the floor just inside the open door when we got there… the gun was beside him… There wasn't, ah… there wasn't much left…"

Mike swallowed heavily before asking. "Then how can you be –?"

"We're sure," the chief interrupted, "believe me, we're sure… beyond the shadow of a doubt… it's Scott."

Feeling his partner's hand gripping his arm even tighter, Mike closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. Then he looked up quickly, frowning. "But I saw headlights… I'm sure I did. After we got hit, there were headlights –"

Powell was shaking his head, almost smiling. "You saw lights, Mike," he interrupted gently, "that's true, but they weren't headlights." He glanced at Steve and almost smiled. "And you didn't make a mistake," he assured quickly when Mike's frown deepened. "For some reason we haven't figured out yet, there were two large… spotlights I guess you could call them," he said with a shrug, "on the porch on either side of the front door. There was still power going to the farmhouse and I guess he'd had those lights installed for the exact purpose he used them for – to blind any approaching intruders, whether on foot or in a vehicle, or to make them think they were being pursued."

"It sure as hell fooled me," Mike said quietly, looking down and shaking his head slowly. "God damn it… We didn't have to run…"

"Don't blame yourself, Mike, you were under attack and both of you had already been wounded. Anyone would've thought that, believe me…" Powell glanced around the room; everyone was nodding. "If he'd snapped those lights on before he fired, maybe you'd've gotten out of there unscathed… but he didn't… and we have to believe that the outcome could've been a lot worse… You guys reacted fast, and that's what saved you…"

Mike looked at his partner. "Steve got us out of there…" he said quietly, "even with his arm all shot up…" His bottom lip quivered slightly. "I had nothing to do with it…" The grip on his arm tightened again; Steve stared into the now haunted blue eyes without moving.

The room fell silent; Powell, Walker and Rios were looking down, Olsen keeping a worried, indirect eye on his injured officers.

Steve smiled, squeezed Mike's arm again then faced the others. "So, ah, did you find anything else there? I mean, besides Scott?"

Powell looked at the man beside him and Rios sat forward, his forearms on his thighs. He shook his head. "Not much; the place didn't look lived in, there wasn't any food or anything… There was a car around back but we don't think he was there too long before you guys showed up. I'm sure you surprised him."

"You said earlier you think you figured out about Scott's visit to San Francisco…?" Mike had raised his head and was focusing on the conversation again.

Rios nodded, glancing at Powell and then Olsen, who nodded for him to continue. "We've, ah, we've been working with some of your guys and we've managed to trace what we think happened after Kowalczyk was murdered. Now what –"

"That second ranch," Mike interrupted, his eyes snapping from Rios to Powell to Olsen, "oh my god, I'm sorry, I just remembered, that second ranch –"

Rios and Powell were nodding quickly, both almost smiling. "Don't worry, Mike, we've been there… as a matter of fact, we went there that same day. And we found what you found," Powell reassured the suddenly agitated lieutenant.

Rios, nodding in agreement with the police chief, smiled in understanding. "Forensics had confirmed that the blood on the floor of the farmhouse belonged to Stan Kowalczyk. And that he was most likely dismembered there as well… like you thought."

Both Mike and Steve nodded soberly.

"And there was something else," Rios added, looking down briefly before continuing. "There's a… I guess you could call it a root cellar under the house. The door's built into the side of the building behind a huge bush… you guys would've had a tough time seeing it in the dark…"

Steve glanced at Mike before replying, "We never checked the outside… we wanted to get to that third place before the fog got too thick…"

"Fair enough," Rios nodded.

"We figured the whole place would be gone over with a fine-toothed comb when we could get back…" Mike added.

"Believe me, it was," Powell smiled sadly. "And that's when they found it… in the root cellar. A bone saw… and Stan Kowalczyk's head…"


	36. Chapter 36

Mike exhaled loudly, his head dropping back onto the pillow as he closed his eyes. Steve leaned forward, running his left hand over his eyes then into his hair. The others looked down and away.

Eventually Mike lifted his head and cleared his throat slightly. "I'm, ah… that's good news," he said softly. "I'm glad you did… at least the poor bastard can have a proper burial now."

Beside him, his head still down, Steve nodded.

"It's already been done," Powell said gently. "We, ah, we located an aunt of Mr. Kowalczyk's, living back east – Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. She had the… the body cremated and the ashes have been sent to her. She's eventually going to inter him next to his parents…"

Steve's head came up. "But we don't have all the body parts yet… right?"

Olsen shook his head, jumping into the conversation for the first time. "No… we told her that… She understands."

"Was the M.E. able to determine a cause of death?" Steve looked at Powell, who nodded.

"Blunt force trauma to the head… a baseball bat, he thinks. We haven't found it yet but we're still looking."

A reverent silence filled the room for a few long seconds then Mike asked, looking at Rios, "I'm sorry, Jay, I interrupted you earlier… You'd mentioned something about you guys tracked Scott's movements to and around San Francisco after Kowalczyk's murder…?"

Rios sat up at little straighter and nodded. "Yes, that's right. Well, from what all our departments," his eyes swept the small group, "have been able to piece together so far, it looks like that after Scott killed and dismembered Kowalczyk in that second farmhouse… and hiding the head in the root cellar for some reason…" he paused, "he, ah, he put the remaining body parts in the trunk of his car… in a duffel bag or a large garbage bag or something similar... We haven't been able to find it yet so we're assuming that might be what the other two body pieces are concealed in somewhere."

He paused again, eyeing Mike and Steve closely before continuing; this was a lot of information for the recovering detectives to be absorbing at one sitting. But they both seemed focused and stoical, so he continued. "That was the car we found behind the third farmhouse. Blood, and a lot of it, was found in the trunk, and it's been matched to Kowalczyk. It seems that sometime after that, Scott drove to San Francisco, stopping when he could to throw body parts to the side of the highway… And we're assuming he did so at night when he could do it without being spotted. And, obviously, he was successful at it."

"What about the leg we found in The City?" Steve asked.

Rios glanced at Powell and Walker before turning back to the curiously frowning detectives. "Well, our guess is, he got to The City… and who knows why, maybe to return to the Church of Satan or just to hide, who knows…? And we think at some point he opened the trunk and found a body part that he'd missed… maybe in the dark it fell out of whatever he used to haul it around in… a plastic bag or whatever… and panicked. He knew he had to get rid of it so maybe he drove around until he found an out-of-the-way dumpster… And it was his bad luck that some homeless guy wanted to use it for shelter…"

"Thank god he did," Olsen offered quietly and there were nods from everyone.

Walker glanced at Powell before facing Mike and Steve and clearing his throat. "We, ah, found out a little more about Scott's background too. You guys interested in what we found?"

Both pairs of eyes staring at him widened; Mike snorted in the affirmative as Steve nodded, "Yeah…"

Walker smiled briefly. "Well, there's not much to report about his mother, she was a housewife, no record… she didn't even drive," he shrugged. "We couldn't find any evidence that she ever had a driver's license. But his father was a different story."

Mike frowned. "I didn't see anything in the reports I was given…"

"Well, it seemed Ronald John Scott had a secret life… that he lived in Nevada. We just sorta stumbled onto it by accident, but it might shed some light on what drove his son to… well, not to become a murderous cult leader but, let's say, to have a troubled life…"

Walker dropped his head briefly and took a deep breath. He glanced up at his boss and Powell nodded encouragingly. "Sorry…" he apologized to the room in general, "ah, this hits a little close to home. My Dad went through the same… personality change when he returned from the war too… but I went into law enforcement and James Scott definitely did not…"

Rios, sitting beside Walker, patted his back encouragingly and the Vacaville sergeant shot him a grateful smile. With a clearing of his throat, Walker continued, "It seems Scott senior spent a lot of time in Las Vegas. He'd leave his wife and son and disappear for days at a time… we're not sure if he went there to gamble or for the prostitutes or what… but the family was never short for money so we don't think he gambled his money away. He was a heavy smoker, we know that, and that's probably why he died of lung cancer so young.

"But what we also know is, he was a drunk… a mean drunk. In the state of Nevada he was arrested eight times for being drunk and disorderly, and another five times for assault on top of being D&D, one of which was coupled with a charge of threatening. Now the police report, for some reason, doesn't state what kind of weapon was used for the threatening, but it could've been the Thompson. There are a lot more gun dealers that ply that kind of trade over there than there are here, believe it or not, especially back then.

"We don't have any domestic abuse reports on file, but we all know that doesn't mean he never touched his wife… or his kid. Two of the Nevada assault charges were filed by women he roughed up. And from what we can tell from the reports, these women weren't one-night-stands with him; they were women he was carrying on affairs with. So he was not exactly an ideal parent for the kid, any kid."

"So both parents died by the time he turned thirty," Steve mused aloud, "and he had no real male role model… so that's why he turned to Anton LaVey?" He looked at his partner with raised eyebrows.

Mike looked at him with a facial shrug. "We look for mentors where we can get them sometimes, don't we?"

"And some get luckier than others," Olsen added gently, glancing subtly at the young man sitting beside him and smiling.

"Still," Steve continued, seeming not to notice the oblique and appreciative scrutiny the pair were receiving from the others, "how in the world did he go from LaVey to Charlie Manson? I mean, there has got to be something we're missing… right?" He looked at his colleagues with a furrowed brow.

"Well," Olsen sighed, leaning forward, "I think that's something we need to leave to the psychiatrists. That's their job. Ours is just to stop these lunatics before they cause harm to anyone else. And, in this case, I think we did our jobs." He turned to his two detectives. "Mike, Steve, I hate what happened to you… neither of you deserved this and it should never have happened. And I am grateful you're both going to be going home soon and both of you will be able to return to work in a few weeks and continue to help keep our streets safe.

"But, and this is a very big but, I also know that, if it wasn't for you and what you did – risking your lives in that fog to make sure you got to that third farmhouse – well, you two saved lives." He paused and fixed them with a narrow, uncompromising stare. "I am convinced that, if it hadn't been you two that stumbled onto Scott, chances are it would've been somebody else… I don't know, a lost driver, a delivery person looking for the right address – and they wouldn't've been so lucky. Now I know you didn't do it deliberately – hell, nobody would deliberately walk into an ambush, except maybe Dirty Harry," he scoffed, "and he's a psychotic megalomaniac that wouldn't be allowed in any police department I know of…"

Despite the seriousness of the moment, the others laughed; Mike and Steve both snorted dryly and looked away uncomfortably.

"Oh, you all know what I mean," Olsen grumbled and the others laughed even more.

Mike looked at his old friend affectionately. "Thank you, Rudy," he said with a sobering sincerity, then finished with, "and it's good to know you won't be hiring Dirty Harry anytime soon." He managed to swallow his chuckle; the others weren't as successful.

Steve glanced warmly at his partner and frowned slightly; even if the others couldn't, he could see that Mike was starting to tire. He turned back to the room, raising his eyebrows quizzically. "You guys have done an amazing job, thank you…" he began, and the others looked at him questioningly, realizing they were subtly being asked to wrap things up.

Powell glanced from the younger partner to the older; Mike had closed his eyes, his head back against the pillow and he had slid his right hand under the blanket after pulling it up to his chin. With a slight understanding smile, Powell met Steve's stare and nodded. "Yeah, we're, ah… we've pretty much told you everything we know for now _"

Mike raised his head and opened his eyes. "The money…" he said almost unsteadily and Steve's head snapped around, worried. Mike shot him a quick reassuring smile. "Did you guys find the money?"

Rios looked at Powell with a curious frown as the police chief shook his head. "Nope, not a sign of it. And we tore those three places almost apart. That's why we have feelers out everywhere trying to find out if Scott or Kowalczyk or 'Jerzy Carlyle' bought any more properties in California. So far it's been a bust but we're still hoping."

"Try Nevada too," Mike said softly, and Steve could tell he was running out of steam.

Rios's eyebrows shot up. "Of course! God, yeah, of course… if the Dad had a secret life there…" There was a chorus of approving and impressed nods all around then Powell got to his feet.

"Well, we'll get out of your hair and let you get some rest," he said warmly, taking a step towards the bed. He glanced at Steve. "I'll be talking to you guys again soon, maybe tomorrow. Take care of yourselves, okay?" He patted Steve's right shoulder.

"Good to meet you both," Rios said from the door as Olsen opened it to encourage their departure.

Walker, realizing this might be the last time to see the San Francisco detectives for awhile, took Powell's place at the head of the bed as Steve got to his feet. "Lieutenant Stone," he began with a smile, "it's great to see you doing so well. It was pretty scary there when we finally found you… you were so cold. I'm just glad we got to you in time."

Mike managed an increasingly weak but genuine smile. He slipped his right hand out from under the blanket and shook the sergeant's. "I'm glad you were too," he chuckled softly.

"I knew there was something wrong that last time I talked to you in the car, when you told me he," Walker nodded towards Steve, "had passed out and you didn't know what to do…"

Steve snapped to attention; it took every ounce of control not to turn to his partner in anger. He knew Mike had lied to him.

Walker snorted softy, almost sadly. "If I'd known you were going to get out of the car, I would have told you not to… I didn't know and I'm sorry, I really am…"

Steve could feel the blood pounding in his ears, his chest heave and his left hand begin to shake. And he knew he was losing control.


	37. Chapter 37

Steve was standing as motionless as he could, barely able to the control the shaking from the anger that was suddenly coursing through his entire body. He was looking past Walker to the bed, at his partner who was focused on the big Vacaville sergeant who was leaning over him, still holding his right hand.

Mike was frowning, his mouth slightly open, shaking his head slowly. "I... uh, I don't remember talking to you…" He blinked several times, continuing to shake his head, then his eyes narrowed in confusion. "I did? I don't remember that at all…"

Walker nodded almost sadly. "Yeah, you did, you called us… you were worried about your partner… We were so close… I told you we were going to start blasting our siren and I wanted you to tell me when you could hear it… You don't remember that?" He squeezed Mike's hand in encouragement.

The San Francisco lieutenant looked lost and bewildered, his focus turning inward for a few seconds as he struggled, but failed, to recall. His head continued to shake slowly as his eyes found their way back to Walker's.

"I'm sorry… I don't remember any of that…"

Walker smiled warmly. "Don't worry about it… everything turned out good in the end, didn't it? We found you, both of you, and in time too." He finally released Mike's hand. "Look, ah, I gotta get outa here and you've gotta get some rest. You, ah, you take care of yourselves," he urged, taking a step back to include Steve, "both of you… and I hope to see you again at some point… when all this is behind us. I'll buy you both a beer, how does that sound?"

Though he was almost spent, Mike's eyes slid to his partner and he managed a wan smile. "I'd like that," he said softly and Walker, grinning, turned to Steve.

The blood still pounding in his ears and his entire body vibrating, Steve managed to tear his gaze from his partner and turn to Walker. He smiled and nodded. "That sounds great to me too," he said, almost surprised that his voice sounded steadier than it felt.

With a final nod back at the bed, Walker crossed to where the San Francisco captain stood holding the open door and disappeared into the corridor. Olsen nodded at Steve before following, letting the door close quietly behind him, leaving the partners alone.

Mike had slid his right hand back under the blanket and closed his eyes. Steve stood stock-still, staring at him, feeling the anger and disappointment slowly evaporate. As the adrenaline coursing through his veins dissipated, he suddenly felt drained and unsteady. With his left hand he reached out and grabbed the arm of the closest chair, dropping into it a little heavier than anticipated, his legs suddenly giving out.

Continuing to stare at the bed and its occupant, he brought his right hand up to cover his mouth. He felt his eyes begin to sting and his chest constrict. He pressed his hand against his lips, hoping to control the strangled cry he knew was rising in the back of his throat.

He closed his eyes. He'd been wrong; Mike hadn't lied to him. The older man honestly did not remember what had happened during the final hours of their ordeal in the cold and the fog on that fateful night.

How could he have doubted him? How could he have been so convinced that Mike had lied to him?

He took several deep breaths, trying to get a grip on his emotions and desperate to stop the shaking that he couldn't control. He opened his eyes; Mike was staring at him with a slight smile. "Are you okay?" the older man asked softly.

Startled, Steve straightened up quickly, dropping his hand away from his face, his smile spontaneous. "I'm – I'm fine," he stumbled, "ah, how about you?"

Still on the pillow, Mike tilted his head, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Wiped… I guess I haven't recovered as quickly as I thought..." He chuckled quietly. Steve's smile got a little wider and he nodded faintly. "Hey, ah," Mike continued, "what did you think about all that stuff they just told us?"

Steve raised his eyebrows and nodded. "They certainly got a lot accomplished, didn't they?"

"Well, we opened the door, they just walked through it…" Mike said with a laugh, stopping with a wince as his eyes snapped shut. Steve could see his right hand, under the blanket, move to the left side of his chest as the older man caught and held his breath.

Startled, Steve's left hand shot out, coming to a gentle rest on his partner's chest, offering support. Mike eventually took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and opened his eyes. "Damn bullet," he growled through a chuckle. "I think it hurts more now that it's out…"

Steve snorted and nodded. "I know the feeling."

"How's the arm doing?" Mike asked, gesturing towards it with his chin.

Looking down quickly, the younger man shrugged. "It doesn't hurt as much as it used to, which is a good sign, I think. And my fingers are starting to look normal again," he wiggled them inside his shirt, "which is a huge relief… just ask your daughter." He finished with a soft laugh and saw Mike's own smile widen.

"So, ah, what do you think?" the senior partner asked after a moment's silence.

"What do I think about what?"

"About Jimmy Scott's father… do you think he bares any responsibility for how his son turned out?"

Steve's brows knit and his head went back. "What, you going all psychological on me? Now?"

Mike chuckled gently, staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes. Steve knew he was fighting to stay awake, somehow understanding just how much his presence was needed at the moment, and he wasn't wrong. "I just meant, you took psychology at Berkeley right? So what do you think about, you know, the apple and the tree theory?"

Shaking his head wryly, Steve chuckled softly. "What – nature versus nurture?" Mike nodded. "Well, as far as I'm concerned, it's still only a fifty-fifty postulation whichever way you look at it. I mean, for everyone who becomes like their parents – a smoker, a gambler, a wife-beater, whatever – there's someone… like me," he said softly, glancing away and swallowing heavily, "who goes totally in the opposite direction.

"Now I didn't have a father like Scott did – you know that," he said quickly and Mike nodded, "my Dad just wasn't much of a father. And he definitely wasn't impressed when I decided to become a cop. Scott's dad, on the other hand, seems to have had no redeeming qualities."

Nodding again, Mike added quietly, "Well, he was wounded during the war, and that can really, you know, do something to your head… Not that I'm excusing him," he added quickly and the younger man nodded in agreement. "A number of the guys I knew after the war were pretty messed up…"

"Just like a lot of the guys coming home from 'Nam," Steve added softly and Mike nodded. The younger man stared at him for a long second before saying gently, "You made it okay…"

Mike smiled ironically. "I wasn't wounded… I was one of the lucky ones, I guess you could call it…" He smiled warmly. "But we're getting off-topic… you still haven't told me what you think about Scott's father. Does he deserve any of the blame, do you think?"

Steve stared at him expressionlessly. "In my opinion, no." He watched as the older man's eyebrows rose slightly. "We're all our own person, our own soul, our own responsibility… we determine how we live our lives. And we've both met people who've started life in conditions, or with parents, way worse than what Scott went through, and they managed to lead exemplary lives. So the notion that, well, 'my dad did that so that's all I know how to do' is, to me, bullshit." His voice had grown stronger and a bit more strident as he talked and he pulled himself up with an almost embarrassed smile.

Mike was smiling enigmatically, but the pride was very apparent in his eyes.

Steve's brow furrowed. "What?"

"I love it when you get so passionate about something…"

"Hey, you asked, okay?" The tone was almost a whining petulance, which made Mike's smile even wider.

The older man closed his eyes, the smile lingering. He took several deep breaths then his eyes slid slowly open again. Steve was still looking at him. "I'm okay," he reassured with a soft chuckle. When the younger man opened his mouth to say something, he added quickly, "So, ah, so where do you think that money is…? It's gotta be somewhere, right?"

Steve sat back slightly, knowing and appreciating what his partner was doing. He didn't know why himself, but he didn't want this moment to end either; a small voice in the back of his mind kept telling him that things had changed between them. He didn't know what, he didn't know why and he didn't know how, but it was something he knew they both were feeling.

And he desperately didn't want to lose the closeness they were sharing at the moment, worried that once it ended, they wouldn't be able to get it back again. In the five and a half years they had been together, they had never had a moment as quietly fraught as this one, and it terrified him to think they would never be so close again.

Hoping his growing despair couldn't be read on his face, his hand still resting lightly on his partner's chest, Steve took a deep breath and nodded. "To be perfectly honest, I haven't been giving it much thought… not until you brought it up just now… What about you?"

Mike shook his head faintly. "I'd forgotten all about it too until just now… but then again, I haven't been thinking about much lately," he chuckled again.

"I wonder if they'll find any more properties?"

"I hope so… I want to make sure Stan Kowalczyk's life amounts to more than just being a… a stooge for someone who used him and then killed him…" Mike's voice had faded to a whisper and his focus turned inward.

"Is that the Slav in you talking?" Steve asked gently, patting his partner's chest.

Mike's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about being a Slav?"

Steve grinned. "Nothing… Nothing except what I've learned from you. I know it has a lot to do with pride… in your origins, your community, your people… There's nothing wrong with that, Mike. In fact, I think it's pretty special."

"Well, it was when I was growing up… my dad made sure of that…" Mike laughed quietly.

Steve knew he was thinking of his late brother and patted his chest again. The older man's eyes were getting heavier and, reluctantly, he lifted his hand and sat forward, preparing to stand. Mike's eyes snapped towards him. "Where are you going?"

"You're half asleep. I'm gonna leave so you can actually go –"

"No!" Mike said quickly, tensing, his eyes boring into the younger man's face. With a soft smile, he relaxed and almost chuckled. "No, please don't leave… not yet anyway… okay? I'm okay, really…"

"If you're sure…?"

Mike nodded. "Yeah… yeah, I'm sure…"

Steve sat back with a relieved sigh; he really hadn't wanted to leave. He had the uncomfortable premonition that once he did, things between them would never be the same. He knew it was irrational but he also knew it was going to happen, and there was nothing either one of them could do to stop it.

Smiling warmly, he reached out and laid his left hand once more on his partner's chest, patting him affectionately. Mike silently watched his every move.

After several long seconds, the older man asked quietly, "We're going home soon, aren't we?"

"Yeah," Steve said slowly and almost sadly, "yeah, Mike, we're going home…"


	38. Chapter 38

A heavy paper bag in one hand, Jeannie pushed the door open then stopped abruptly, her eyebrows shooting up near her hairline. "Wow, Mike, you look great!"

Standing near the foot of the bed, her father looked down at himself and nodded appreciatively. "Okay, I have to admit, Rudy did a great job," he chuckled, glancing at his partner beside him.

Steve smiled warmly. He had just helped, as much as he could, the older man into the clothes that had been procured by their captain. He knew, as with himself, Jeannie had given Olsen very explicit instructions about what to buy, and for Mike she had even provided accurate sizes and measurements.

"I'll say," Jeannie said with a chuckle, "and they fit perfectly too."

"Jeez, I wish I had a mirror," Mike laughed. He turned to Steve with raised eyebrows. "She never compliments me on my choice of wardrobe, so this is a red letter day for the Stone family. She thinks my beige Dockers are 'old man' pants." He looked down at himself again. He had to agree, though; the fine corduroy black pants and the blue-and-white heavy cotton shirt with the button-down collar had a certain… _je ne sais quoi_.

"They certainly are," Jeannie agreed with his explanation of her assessment of his selection of casual clothes. "I think he looks much better in black pants," she said pointedly to the younger man, "'cause he has great legs."

Mike's eyes shot towards her, wide and slightly stunned. "Uh… thank you…"

Steve was nodding with a facial shrug. "You know, she's right… I've always thought that too…" He could barely contain the laughter that was rising in the back of his throat.

"All right, that's enough," the older man growled good-naturedly, reaching out to take a playful swat at his partner. He gestured with his chin towards the bag in his daughter's hand. "What's in there?"

"This?" she asked, hefting the bag as she crossed to the bed to put it down. "This is a little 'getting released from the hospital present' for the two of you." She smiled at them enigmatically.

"But I got out a couple of days ago," Steve said with a frown.

"You're still out, aren't you?"

He shrugged carefully; his right arm was still very sensitive to any sudden movement. "I guess…"

It was the Christmas Eve, and Mike was finally being released. Steve had arrived at the hospital almost an hour earlier to help his partner to get changed and assist with whatever else that needed to be done. Jeannie, claiming she had a few errands to run before she could join them, had dashed off almost with the rising of the sun.

They had been prepared for his release on Christmas Day or even after but his more than satisfactory recovery from the surgery to remove the bullet lodged in his scapula meant the medical staff felt comfortable enough to release him today. They had found out the night before, and Jeannie was sent scrambling. Neither man had any idea of what she was doing.

She pulled two large, thick dark coloured sweatshirts out of the bag, handing a deep brown one to Steve and a black one to her father.

"These look warm," Steve said as he felt the soft material, at the exact same time Mike, staring at his daughter through narrowed eyes, asked, "What are these for?"

"They are," she said pleasantly to Steve before her eyes snapped to her father. "They're for you to wear, what do you think? It's cold outside."

His eyes didn't waver. "What have you got up your sleeve?"

"Why would I have anything up my sleeve?" she asked innocently as she folded the bag, avoiding his stare.

"Because I know how your mind works. What's going on?"

She faced him, crossing her arms and pinning him with a peeved glare. He didn't move. "You know, sometimes it's really annoying having a father who's a detective…"

He smiled like the cat that ate the canary. "Come on, sweetheart… the jig is up, so spill…" He was using his best Bogart voice, the one that always made her laugh.

Steve, watching the back-and-forth between father and daughter like a tennis match, chuckled behind his hand. It felt good to see that some things were getting back to normal.

Jeannie sighed theatrically and rolled her eyes. "You really know how to take the fun out of a surprise," she groused as she crossed to the door and threw it open. "Ta-da!" she announced half-heartedly, staring at them dejectedly.

In unison, both men looked at the door then looked at her expressionlessly. "Ta-da what?" asked her father pedantically.

Her head spun to the open doorway and she froze, frowning. Still holding the door she took a step out into the hallway, looking first one way then the other. Her brow furrowed even deeper and she sighed heavily, nodding sharply at someone they couldn't see.

As she stepped back into the room, Sergeant Norm Haseejian, grinning with embarrassment, appeared in the doorway. "Hi. I, uh, I didn't think it was gonna be so fast…" He pointed to his left down the hall. "I was at the, ah, the water fountain…"

"Norm, what the hell are you doing here?" Steve asked with a laugh, obviously pleased to see the heavyset sergeant.

"Yeah, that's what I want to know too," Mike echoed, frowning and glancing pointedly at his daughter before pinning his officer with an unsettling stare.

"Well, ah, you, ah, you might want to ask her," Haseejian nodded towards his boss's daughter.

Mike's eyes slid from his sergeant to his offspring. "Jeannie…?"

She stared back. "Well, it _was_ part of your Christmas surprise, if you want to know. When I found out you were getting out today, I thought, well, we could make it home before Christmas. But I needed to get a car and I thought, well, I'd call Rudy and see what he thought. He suggested Norm."

"He suggested Norm do what?" Mike persisted, still not cracking a smile.

Haseejian grinned. "Well, I wasn't scheduled to work today, so Rudy told me to take one of the cars, big enough for all of us, and head up here and pick you all up and bring you home."

"Now?"

Still grinning, the sergeant nodded. "Yeah, now… right?" He looked at Jeannie in confusion.

"Yes, now," she insisted, jerking her head towards the corridor.

It took him a second or two to realize what she meant before he took a step back and she allowed the door to close in his face. Then she faced her father with an irritated stare and folded her arms. "Merry Christmas…" she growled.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Steve stood immobile, only his eyes snapping back and forth between the two most important people in his life. He couldn't understand Mike's attitude; he, for one, was thrilled and grateful to be heading home.

Mike took a deep breath, staring deeply into his daughter's eyes. "I think it's a great idea," he said lowly with a tinge of anger in his voice, watching as both young people froze, not sure exactly what they had just heard.

It was Jeannie who recovered first. Her stiff posture softened and she raised an eyebrow. "What…?" she asked softly.

Mike started to grin. "I said," he repeated slowly, "I think it's a great idea…"

Her mouth dropping open slightly, she glanced at Steve in bewilderment then pinned her father with a narrow eyed glare and set her jaw. "Why you big…" she enunciated slowly, crossing towards him as she uncrossed her arms. Pretending to reach up to hit him, he raised his right hand in mock self defense as she turned the gesture into a quick gentle hug, being careful of his left shoulder and arm, still in a sling. He grabbed her as best he could and kissed the top of her head as Steve chuckled, tossing the sweatshirt over his left shoulder before crossing to open the door.

"Come on back in, Norm," he said amiably to the sergeant who was standing in the same spot as when the door closed.

Chuckling, Haseejian took a couple of steps into the room. "Jeez, I've never felt so welcome…" he grumbled good-naturedly as his smiling eyes took in his colleagues. "I must say, you guys are looking a lot better than I thought you would."

"Why thank you, Norm," Steve said with a chuckle, slapping the older man on the shoulder as he crossed back to the bed, dropping the new sweatshirt beside the one Mike had already thrown there.

"So, am I to take it from your presence, that we are all going home right this moment?" Mike asked with a smile, looking from his sergeant to his daughter expectantly.

"I, ah, yeah, I think that's why I'm here," Haseejian said with a dry chuckle. "I've got a brand new moss green LTD sitting in the parking lot – and I hear the heater works very, very well."

"Good thing," Mike said with a wry laugh, "'cause I have a feeling I'm never going to be warm again… I mean really warm…"

"Well, there's a couple of really big coats hanging up near the nurses station – I had Rudy bring them with him the last time he came up. And if the traffic's not too bad, we could be home early afternoon. So," she looked from her father to Steve with a warm smile, "how does all that sound?"

The younger man glanced at his partner and nodded. "I think that sounds great. Mike?"

Staring at his daughter lovingly, Mike nodded slowly. "I think that's the best Christmas present any of us could get this year… don't you agree…?"

Grinning, Jeannie crossed to him, put her hand behind his head and pulled him down to plant a kiss on his lips. "It's the best present I could get, that's for sure…"

# # # # #

Jeannie turned around in the seat to address the men in the back. "So I guess it goes without saying that Steve is going to be staying with us for awhile, right?"

They were about a half hour out of Sacramento and making good time with the lead-footed Haseejian behind the wheel. Mike, who could see the speedometer from his position on the right side of the rear seat, kept shooting daggers at the back of the Armenian sergeant,s head; he had faith in Steve's ability to control the big sedan but less so in Haseejian's, much to the amusement of his partner.

"What was that?" Mike asked, distracted by the fluctuating speedometer needle as the LTD swerved into the left lane to pass a slower station wagon.

Steve glanced Mike before looking at Jeannie. "No no, it's okay, I'll be fine on my own –"

"Bullshit," she said firmly, glancing at her father with a "Sorry, Dad," apology before Mike could react, "there is no way either of us is letting you stay by yourself with that," she nodded in the general direction of his still heavily bandaged right forearm buried under all the layers of clothing, "and especially not at Christmastime… right, Mike?" She looked sharply at her father for confirmation.

Still staring at her wide-eyed and open-mouthed after her totally unexpected expletive, he nodded, his brow furrowing under the fedora as he turned to the young man beside him. "She's, ah, yeah, she's absolutely right… you're not staying by yourself in that apartment." He finished the sentence with more conviction than when he started, still getting over the shock of his less than genteel daughter. "You don't have a choice, I'm afraid." He nodded at Jeannie. "The oracle has spoken."

Swallowing a smile, Steve looked back and forth from father to daughter, knowing any further protestations would be met with even more vociferous rejections. Feigning reluctance, but actually pleased that the decision had been made for him, he nodded with a small shrug. "Well, if you're sure…"

Jeannie stared at him from under a cocked eyebrow. Then she glanced at her father and smiled. "Done." She turned to the driver. "Norm, you're only going to have to make one stop."

"Sounds good to me." They heard the sergeant chuckling.

Mike looked at Steve from the corner of his eye then cleared his throat slightly, turning to stare at the back of his daughter's head. "So, um, what are we going to do about a turkey, sweetheart? It's too late to get one now, even a frozen one. We could never get it thawed –"

She had twisted around in the seat far enough so she could see her father, who was sitting directly behind her. "Don't worry about that little detail; it's already been handled," she said enigmatically, turning slowly back to look out the windshield, her gaze lingering on Haseejian as she did; his weather-beaten face broke into a wide grin.

Knowing now was not the time to pursue the matter, Mike shared a curious and confused look with his partner then carefully settled back onto the seat, trying not to put pressure on his broken shoulder blade.

Biting his lip in an attempt not to grin, Steve turned to look out the side window.

Smiling, Mike looked at the back of his young partner's head. He was looking forward to spending the holidays with his favourite people but he couldn't shake the premonition that this might be the last time.

Frowning to himself, Mike closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the seat, letting the fedora fall forward as he tried to find a more pain-free position. He felt the sting of tears behind his closed lids and hoped no one else in the car would notice.


	39. Chapter 39

His dressing gown over his pajamas, Mike quietly opened the bedroom door, listening to the silence he hoped he would find. Satisfied, he softly padded to the stairs and descended to the first floor.

Moving surely in the darkened room he knew so well, he carefully bent over, trying not to jar his left shoulder, picked up the electrical cord lying on the floor behind the recliner and plugged it into the outlet. The soft coloured lights of the Christmas tree snapped on.

Trying not to wince, he lowered himself slowly into the chair and tilted it back, shifting gingerly to find a comfortable position that didn't aggravate the ache in his broken shoulder blade. He closed his eyes, resting his right hand over the bandages covering his upper left chest and took several deep breaths. He knew he was healing but it was going to be a slow and frustrating wait, he also realized.

It had been a busy couple of days and he was more tired that he wanted to admit. They had arrived back in The City mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve, thanks to the nerve-wracking but ultimately impressive skill of Norm Haseejian behind the wheel.

The joy and relief of being back in his own house and his own city was doubled when Jeannie, all a titter, ushered the partners into the kitchen and opened the fridge door. There, in all its glory, sat an uncooked twenty-pound turkey. "Ta-da!" she had announced with a grin.

Steve had begun to laugh; he had just stood there with a confused frown. "How in the world…?"

His daughter giggled. "Awww, the power of persuasion… I worked on Rudy - which really wasn't hard," she chuckled wickedly, "who in turn paid a visit to Albert's. He managed to use his… influence, and his badge I do believe, to talk to the big man himself, Mr. Albert, and told him your sad story." She had turned her woe-filled eyes on her father and chuckled again. "And ta-da!" She gestured at the turkey.

"That's, ah, that's amazing," he had managed to get out, shocked and pleased by the turn of events. Then he looked at her with a frown. " _Mr._ Albert? I thought Albert was his first name?"

Jeannie shrugged. "Yeah, I thought so too… Turns out his first name is Gordon."

"Hunh? All these years and we never knew," he mused, hearing Steve chuckle softly beside him.

"Well, Jeannie," the younger man said with a soft laugh, "I and my stomach are thrilled… it wouldn't be Christmas without a turkey."

"You got that right." She slammed the fridge door. "Okay, so now I have a lot to do. I've gotta go shopping to get everything for tomorrow – and that's going to be a nightmare on Christmas Eve... So I want you two to take it easy this afternoon 'cause I'm going to need all kinds of help tomorrow if we're gonna pull this off. Steve, you're going to sleep in my room – no arguments so don't even start," she pinned him with a stare and he closed his mouth and nodded, "and I want your house key 'cause while I'm out I'll drop around your place and pick up everything you'll need for the next few days. Okay?"

Steve, who was staring at her with a concerned frown, nodded reluctantly, reaching into his jacket pocket for his keys then dropping them into her outstretched hand. Mike was watching the interaction with a smile.

"Anything you want from your place other than the usual?"

"Ah, yeah, there's a book beside my bed, _Against Our Will_. Can you get that for me?"

Jeannie's head went back slightly and her brow furrowed, curious about his choice of reading material. She started to nod slowly. "Yeah, sure, I can get that. Anything else"

Steve shook his head. "No, that'll be all, thanks."

A few minutes later, Jeannie was out the door and the partners were alone. Mike looked at the younger man. "I don't know about you, but I'd like a cup of good coffee. You?"

Steve smiled. "That sounds great."

"You got it." Mike set about one-handedly filling the percolator while the younger man, equally handicapped, got out the mugs, spoons, milk and sugar. Neither spoke.

About ten minutes later, enjoying the fresh brew and seated in the living room, Mike looked over the top of his cup at his partner and asked quietly. "So, do you think between us we can drag the tree and the decorations up from downstairs and surprise Jeannie by the time she gets back?"

Steve smiled slowly. "I'm game. You?"

Mike's eyebrows snapped up. "Yeah." He put the mug down with a thud as he pushed the recliner closed and got up.

A couple of hours later, the front door opened and Jeannie entered with two half-filled bags of groceries that she set on the floor. "I'm going back for more," she announced and disappeared.

Mike, in the recliner, glanced at Steve and chuckled before getting up and crossing to the open door, picking up a bag and bringing it into the kitchen; Steve did the same. They met Jeannie at the door on her next trip, grinning; she laughed as she passed them the bags before heading to the car again.

"No more groceries!" she called over her shoulder and she headed down the steps, "just Steve's stuff."

When she got back, he reached for the duffel bag she was struggling with, taking it from her hands before she stepped into the room and began to take off her coat. "So, did you guys take a nap while I was gone?"

"Well, not really," Mike said slowly from the kitchen door and she looked at him then followed his gaze towards the far end of the living room.

She saw the tree; her eyebrows shot up and she grinned. "How did you guys manage to do that?" she almost squealed with delight.

"Well," Steve said practically, "between us we have two good hands… so we used them."

Giggling, she raised herself on her tiptoes and kissed him then crossed to her dad and did the same. "You guys did a great job!" she laughed with delight as she moved closer to the tree, both men in her wake. She turned to her father and wrapped her hands around her right arm, leaning against him.

"I just wish we had presents to put under it, but that'll come, right?" he said sadly.

She looked up at him, smiling. "You bet. We're still going to have a Christmas, just a little later than everyone else." She stared at her father then looked at Steve. "But I've got my Christmas present already," she whispered, blinking back the tears.

Christmas Day had been a warm and cozy one, ensconced in the small comfortable house on De Haro, wondrously oblivious to the world outside. As was the Stone custom, single members of the Homicide department or family friends who otherwise wouldn't be enjoying a Christmas dinner, were invited to partake.

Doing the best they could, Mike and Steve had pitched in to give Jeannie a hand. They managed to help her not only with the turkey and all the trimmings, but they even managed to make and bake two pies.

It had been a wonderful day, filled to the brim, leaving the partners no time to dwell on the events of the past couple of weeks, which was a welcome balm for both of them. By the time the last guest left the house late in the evening, both men were exhausted.

Jeannie, who was going to be spending the night with an old school friend's family – something she had been doing since she was a little girl and another tradition she wanted to keep – and the men had stacked all the dirty dishes, plates and cutlery, in the kitchen, vowing to tackle them the next day.

After she had left, they had retired to their separate bedrooms and some much needed rest. Mike's shoulder had started to ache hours ago but he had managed to keep it to himself. He would catch Steve wincing every once in awhile but the younger man never complained.

And now, unable to sleep, he put his head back against the recliner and closed his eyes. The demons that had been roiling around in his mind for the past several days were still there, stronger than before.

The past two days had been a wonderful respite from the turmoil they had endured and he was grateful, but he'd also knew the both he and Steve had been using the hustle and bustle of Christmas to avoid any discussion of what they had just been through.

He opened his eyes and looked at the tree. Things had changed, he knew, but he didn't know what and he didn't know why. But something between them was different.

Deep down, he knew he felt guilty. After that they had found at the second ranch, and knowing that a vicious and violent murder had taken place there, he had insisted they find the third location before the fog set in and put an end to their day. And that had been a decision that had almost gotten both of them killed.

He wanted to apologize, even though he knew with every fiber in his being that Steve would be appalled that the thought had even crossed his mind. But in the five and a half years they had been together, if nothing else his protective attitude towards the younger man had grown stronger and deeper, and the simple fact that he had put both their lives in danger was ripping at his very soul.

They had gotten so very, very close; so close that it scared him sometimes. And for one of the few times in his life, he didn't know what to do… and that frightened him more than anything else.

He put his right hand over his mouth and took several deep breaths through his nose, trying to control the unbidden emotions that were washing over him. He blinked several times to clear his eyes.

Getting himself under control, he sat forward on the recliner and was just about to stand when he saw it. Lying on the coffee table was the yellow-covered hardback book that Steve was reading. He picked it up, trying to make out the title in the dim light from the Christmas tree.

Growling slightly, he put the book on his lap and reached awkwardly for the lamp on the table beside him. He picked up the book again. _Against Our Will_ by Susan Brownmiller, he read. The subtitle read _Men, Women and Rape._

Frowning, Mike laid the book in his lap and opened it, flipping through it, stopping to read the occasional chapter or two. He sat back, the book still in his lap, thinking. He remembered back to their chat in his hospital room after Powell, Walker, Rios and Rudy had left, when he had asked Steve what he thought had prompted Jimmy Scott's descent into cult leadership, murder and eventual suicide.

He had been impressed with the younger man's contemplative and almost professorial analysis of Scott's temperament and upbringing. Now, as he hefted the book in his hand, he wondered just how much his young partner was turning in that direction, studying the psychology of the criminal mind.

He stared at the tree again, thinking of all the implications this might entail. And how it might, or might not, affect their partnership, both personal and professional.

Eventually, with an affirming nod to himself, he put the book back on the coffee table, turned off the lamp and climbed slowly and carefully out of the recliner. He unplugged the Christmas tree then, with an almost renewed vigor, climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

Closing the door quietly, he got back into bed. And this time, for the first time in days, he slept deeply and soundly.

Deep down, he knew he felt guilty. After what they had found at the second ranch, and knowing that a vicious and violent murder had taken place there, he had insisted they find the third location before the fog set in. And that had been a decision that had amost gotten both of them


	40. Chapter 40

**End of the Road - Chapter 40**

He heard Mike's bedroom door close softly. He'd been staring at the ceiling in the dark of Jeannie's bedroom since he'd heard the door open almost an hour earlier and the older man descend the stairs to the first floor.

Part of him had wanted to get up and join his partner, but his innate sense of discretion had kicked in and he knew he had to give the older man some space and time. He was only too aware of the awkwardness that had gradually developed between them in the past few days. He hoped no one else, especially Jeannie, had noticed, and he was pretty sure, with all the hectic activity of the last forty-eight hours, that she was none the wiser. But then again she was Mike's daughter…

He smiled to himself despite the wave of melancholy that suddenly washed over him. He wasn't sure when he'd started to feel the dull, sometimes nagging twinge that would make itself known in the back of mind, but it had been awhile now; several months at least.

The more he thought about it, the more he began to believe it had started last spring, a month or so after Mike's 60th birthday. He and Jeannie had succeeded in organizing a surprise party in a downtown restaurant, an evening which Mike had initially resisted but ended up enjoying immensely. Jeannie had even managed to contact more than a few of her father's former colleagues, many of whom had retired, and even a couple of his early partners. It had been a marvelous night, full of love and laughter and a lot of ribald 'war stories'.

A few weeks later, waiting at his desk for Mike to finish a phone call before entering the office, he had stared at his partner through the glass door. And it slowly dawned on him that their days together on the street were numbered, and that that number was getting smaller and smaller with each passing day. A sudden and unexpected sadness had suddenly filled him, and he'd felt his eyes begin to sting from the unanticipated tears.

In the months that followed, that thought had returned several times, usually after they had closed a case and were at the office completing the paperwork or getting ready for court. He had kept his growing concern to himself, attempting to shrug it off as an almost indefensible apprehension brought about by the milestone birthday. Besides, he thought, Mike was in good health and great shape and had made no mention of retirement, either from the street or from the force altogether.

Then one day during the summer, he had found himself at City Lights. It was a rare day off and he had spent a couple of wonderful hours on that warm, sunny day browsing the stacks of the world famous bookstore, something he found himself doing more and more often the older he got, it seemed.

He had wandered into the Philosophy and Psychology section and found an old dog-eared copy of _"Insanity and the Criminal"_ and a copy of the professional journal _"Criminal Justice and Behavior"_. Then, over a couple of beers and Alioto's famous Sole Involtini, he had begun to devour both treatises.

In the months that followed, he had trolled City Lights numerous times, looking for other publications and books on true crime with a renewed vigor; one of those books was Vincent Bugliosi's _"Helter Skelter"._ He had even made a foray back to Berkeley, to inveigle a couple of his old professors to loan him the most up-to-date peer-reviewed journals on criminal psychology.

Now, lying in the dark in Jeannie's bedroom, he flexed the fingers of his right hand, feeling the ache in the muscles of his forearm and the pull of the still swollen and healing sutures. He squeezed his eyes shut as once again it all came flooding back: the shock and the pain, the windshield shattering, the desperate flight in the fog and the dark, both of them wounded and shaken.

It still took his breath away when he thought of just how close they had come to succumbing to the cold in the wreckage of their car at the end of that short country road. He snorted ironically; _the end of the road_ , he thought. Those few words were suddenly taking on a life of their own in his world, a life that was beginning to cause him more and more concern.

He thought back over the past five and a half years, and the direction his life has taken since he had accepted the assistant inspector position in Homicide, and begun the partnership with the highly regarded, and almost legendary, lieutenant. At the time he'd had no idea how his life was going to go. He knew he was being touted as a shining light in the department, an up and comer who hopefully would combine his erudite university instruction with his partner's experience and instinctive street smarts to begin a whole new era of policing on the streets of San Francisco.

Little did he, or anyone, know just how successful this would turn out to be. He'd been worried at first, concerned that the lieutenant, sensing the younger man's lack of maturity and practical training, would turn this 'experiment' into a quick and disappointing failure. But he was more than pleasantly surprised to discover the older man, unlike most veterans he had encountered, was open to his theories and ideas, and encouraging more often than disparaging.

Emboldened by the trust and faith that had been placed in him on the job, he had found that their personal relationship, which he had never given much thought to beforehand, had slowly transformed from a polite but somewhat distant friendship into a deep bond. It was something he realized he wasn't aware of until the night, about two and a half years into their partnership, Mike had been taken hostage and shot by the Cobras street gang. The fear and anger had almost overwhelmed him; only the steadying presence of Roy Devitt had kept him from stepping over that thin blue line.

But it had also taught him just how close he had become to his partner, and how devastated he would be if that had all been lost. It had been more than a wake-up call; it had brought home just how much he had invested in this very special relationship. And, instead of backing off, which he would've done in the past, he embraced this newfound knowledge, and a satisfying contentment had settled over him in the past three years. For the first time in his life a warm serenity had filled his soul; he was doing important work beside a man who constantly made him feel that he was a valuable and special voice in the world.

Steve sighed as he continued to stare at the unseen ceiling. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when the dark shadow had begun to coalesce in his mind's eye, but sometime in the past few months he had found his thoughts drifting towards the one subject he was terrified to confront: the end of their partnership. He didn't know why, but that singular concern, which had begun with an off-the-cuff remark from Mike over dinner one night, was quickly becoming all consuming.

They had been in a brief foot chase earlier in the day, running after a suspect who had escaped a first floor apartment through a back window into an alley. Mike had bolted out the front door and around the building while he had followed the perpetrator out the window. They had cornered the escapee in a nearby cul-de-sac and Mike had taken him down with a flying tackle.

Later in the day, their suspect arrested and behind bars, they had dropped by a waterfront diner for a well-deserved burger and beer. Wincing from the pain of a bruised shoulder and slight hamstring pull from his exertions, Mike had joked that maybe he was getting too old for this kind of thing.

They had both laughed off the remark; Mike had made it many times before. But for Steve, this time it sounded different, more heartfelt and sincere. It rattled him. And almost imperceptibly he found himself pulling back slightly, looking at their partnership and personal relationship through almost different eyes.

He couldn't understand why but he had the feeling it was because, if their strong bond was going to begin unraveling, he wanted it to be on their own terms and not because of something neither of them could control. And then he found himself at City Lights, scouring the shelves, hoping to find something to help him through this unexpected turbulence in his life.

He'd told himself he was trying to obtain a deeper understanding into the mind of potential suspects, but he reluctantly acknowledged that maybe there was an alternative reason behind this sudden newfound interest in the criminal mind.

And that was when the first letter arrived.

He sighed heavily. Luckily it had been delivered to his apartment and not the office, where Mike would have been sure to spot and question it. He'd dismissed it outright at first, flattered but not interested, he'd replied. But the proposal, the kernel of interest that had been planted, continued to bounce around in his thoughts from time to time.

And now this. He flexed his hand again, making a loose fist, wincing slightly at the pain it still elicited. It would be weeks, he knew, until he was cleared to go back on full duty; it would be the same with Mike. That could turn out to be both a good and a bad thing, he felt. They had both chafed under the mandatory desk duty required after an injury before, so that was the bad part; the good part was, he hoped, it might allow him time to seriously and fully investigate his own conflicting feelings about the job and the partnership without the pressure of a case.

With another sigh, he nodded to himself in the dark. Whichever way it was going to go, he thought, he wanted to make sure that the remarkable relationship he was so privileged to share with the man who was also lying in the dark in the room down the hall would survive whatever decision he would ultimately reach.

But until then, he promised himself, he'd make sure that Mike would never know. He couldn't do that to him, knowing that the older man would believe that he was somehow responsible. That was one of the things Steve loved about him.

# # # # #

He woke up slowly, enjoying the warmth of the soft, heavy blankets. When he finally opened his eyes, dull sunlight was illuminating the walls around the edges of the dark curtains. Frowning, he reached for his watch on the bedside table, squinting at the dial. 9:15. His eyebrows shot up, surprised he had gotten as much sleep as he had; he knew he'd been lying there, awake and thinking, for a long time.

It took awhile for him to get dressed, foregoing a shave for the time being, before heading downstairs. The master bedroom door was open he noticed as he passed by. He was halfway down the stairs when he smelled the aroma of fresh coffee and he chuckled.

Mike was sitting at the kitchen table, his black-rimmed reading glasses on, a newspaper spread out before him. He glanced towards the entrance, a broad smile splitting his face. "Good morning, sleepyhead," he chuckled, nodding towards the counter. "Coffee's on, help yourself."

"Yeah, I could smell it all the way upstairs." Steve chuckled as he moved further into the kitchen, noticing everything set out on the one cleared area of the counter – mugs, spoons, sugar. There was a loaf of bread, butter, jam and peanut butter beside the toaster as well.

"How's the arm?" Mike asked, his attention going back to the paper.

"Feels pretty good this morning," the younger man answered as he worked the carafe out of the coffeemaker with his left hand. "How about you?"

Mike glanced up. "Shoulder blade is still a pain, literally, but the rest is fine."

Steve frowned at the paper. "It's the day after Christmas… there's no paper today so what are you reading?"

Mike's eyebrows rose. "This? Oh, this is last week's – Tuesday's." He chuckled. "It's still news if I didn't know about it, right?"

Shrugging, his partner nodded with a laugh. "That makes sense, I guess."

Still chuckling, Mike picked up a folded section and tossed it on the other side of the table. "Here, I left you the crossword."

Finished prepping his coffee, Steve crossed to the table and sat with a shake of his head and a sigh. Mike's head was down, his full attention back on the article he was reading. Steve watched him for several seconds, an affectionate smile lighting his face, then he put down the mug, picked up a nearby pen and set to work.


	41. Chapter 41

It was early afternoon when Jeannie slipped her key into the lock and opened the front door. Mike, wearing the freshly laundered clothes he'd acquired in Sacramento under a bulky black cardigan, his socked feet in slippers, was sitting in the recliner in the living room reading a hardback book. He glanced up over his glasses as she closed the door.

"Hi, sweetheart, did you have a good time at Cassie's?"

She hefted the large paper bag she held in her left hand. "It was great; they always put on such a wonderful brunch. Mrs. Dighton sent you some shortbread cookies and butter tarts," she giggled. Her friend's mother always sent her home with a doggie bag for her father.

His eyebrows on the rise, Mike closed the book, putting it on the end table beside him then gestured to her with his right hand. "Oh ho," he chortled, "bring 'em over."

Laughing, she reached into the bag as she crossed to the chair, taking out a cookie tin. He waited almost patiently while she put the bag on the floor and opened the tin; it took two hands. He watched her every move, reaching for a small round shortbread cookie when she finally proffered them, sitting back with his eyes closed and a smile after the first bite. She chuckled lovingly. "I'll tell Mrs. Dighton they were a big hit."

She sat on the arm of the chair, reaching over him to put the tin on top of the book on the end table. "How are you feeling?"

He looked up at her after he swallowed. "Good. The shoulder blade still hurts a little but other than that, pretty good."

"I noticed the car's gone. Did Steve take it?"

Mike nodded. "Yeah, he wanted to go home for a bit. He can drive it one-handed - not like his Porsche. That's gonna have to sit and collect dust for awhile, I'm afraid."

He reached for a butter tart, feeling her eyes on him. He knew she wanted to approach him about something so he waited, taking a bite of the tart, knowing she would start talking when she felt it was right. It didn't take long.

"Mike, are you okay?"

He hesitated a split second before looking at her again. "I'm fine, sweetheart. I still don't think I'll ever be completely warm again," he chuckled, trying not to wince, but when she didn't crack a smile, he frowned slightly. "Why?" He asked, popping the rest of the tart in his mouth.

She tilted her head, worry in her eyes, and shrugged noncommittally. "You just seem a little… I don't know, a little distracted since we came home. Is everything all right?"

He smiled. "Yeah, of course it is. I mean, you know, it's gonna take me awhile to bounce back… I'm not as young as I used to be," he chuckled and shrugged, putting his right hand on his bandaged left shoulder, his arm still in the sling under his shirt.

Her face lit up lovingly and she put her hand on the back of his head, leaning forward to kiss him. "You sure…?" She didn't sound convinced.

His smile got a little wider. "I'm sure." His eyes slid pointedly to the cookie tin on the table then back to hers. "Am I allowed another cookie?"

Laughing, she leaned forward to kiss him once more before reaching across and picking up the tin. "One more shortbread. I don't want you to spoil your dinner!"

"Dinner!" he almost roared as he picked up another golden brown cookie. "We're not eating for hours yet!"

"Yeah, but I know you!" She put the lid on the tin and picked up the paper bag before vanishing into the kitchen.

His smile disappearing, he laid the back of his head against the chair and closed his eyes. He sighed deeply but quietly. _Damn_ , he thought, _she doesn't miss a thing…_

# # # # #

Steve angled the car into the curb and shifted into Park before turning the key and pulling it from the ignition. He reached for the door handle then stopped. Settling back into the seat, he looked into the rearview mirror. He could see the lower steps leading up to the house on the steep De Haro Street hill.

He took a deep breath. The letter had been sitting on the coffee table in his small living room when he stepped through the front door, as if waiting for him. He'd already responded with a polite but firm 'no', but now he was wondering why he hadn't bothered to throw the letter away. Was there really a part of him that was seriously considering the offer?

Could he really do that? Could he turn in his badge for a blackboard? He'd always admired people who devoted their lives to teaching others, and he himself had been blessed to have come under the influence and advocacy of several outstanding teachers and mentors throughout his life already, not the least of whom was the man who, through some magical serendipity, had become his partner over five years ago.

He loved his life. He loved the time he spent on the job, using everything in his arsenal, both mental and physical, to solve the most baffling of cases. There was nothing more satisfying, he felt, than seeing a guilty party sentenced to pay for their crimes. His only regret was that there never seemed to be an end to the brutality that they witnessed almost daily.

There had to be a way, he thought, to prevent these crimes from happening in the first place. And the longer he had been in this job, the more he was convinced that the burgeoning study of the criminal mind, the why and how of the genesis of murder, was an avenue of research that was going to become a valuable tool for homicide investigators in the future. And might even begin to save lives.

Lives of cops, he thought; maybe his own one day, maybe Mike's…

With a melancholic sigh, he opened the door, picked up the small flight bag on the seat beside him and got out of the car, slowly crossing the street and starting up the concrete steps to the familiar old house and the man he loved so dearly.

# # # # #

Steve glanced up, looking through the closed glass door into the small office. Mike was still on the phone. He picked up another pink note and, with a small sigh, dialed. All he'd been doing since he'd gotten in that morning was answering the myriad of messages that had been stuffed under his black phone during his absence. Most of the calls were fruitless, no longer relevant. The others were from concerned colleagues wanting to be reassured that he had survived their ordeal.

He knew Mike was doing the same. As he waited for the line to connect, he looked at the inner office once again, in time to see Mike drop a phone message into his wastepaper basket and reach for another. Their eyes met through the glass and they both smiled knowingly before turning their attention back to the phones.

The line continued to ring. He was just about to hang up when a long white envelope was tossed gently onto his desk. He glanced up questioningly, putting the receiver back on the hook. Sergeant Sekulovich gestured at the envelope with his chin. "That was left at the front desk for you this morning," he said flatly before continuing on to his desk against the far wall.

Steve reached for the envelope. "Thanks, Art," he mumbled as he looked at his name in block letters on the front. There was nothing else – no return address or stamp. He turned it over. It was sealed. He opened the top drawer, took out a metal letter opener and slit it open. There were three sheets of paper and as he unfolded them his eyes immediately went to the letterhead: _Berkeley Law, University of California._

Almost guiltily, he looked up at the office; Mike had his head down, making notes. He turned his chair slightly to the left, shielding the papers slightly with his body. He scanned the letter quickly then folded the papers, stuffed them back in the envelope then opened the top drawer of his desk again and tossed it inside. He glanced towards the office again before picking up another phone message.

He was staring at the number in the blue ink for several long seconds without actually seeing it. Blood was pounding in his ears and his heart in his chest. He was still staring at the message when a familiar voice boomed in his ear, "You having trouble making out the numbers or what?"

He jumped and turned. Mike was standing in his office doorway with his empty coffee cup in his hand, grinning. "I don't think I've made so many phone calls in one morning in my life. You?" he asked with a chuckle as he moved towards the coffee area, not expecting an answer.

Taking a second to collect himself, Steve shot to his feet. "Ah, no," he said quickly with a forced laugh as he picked up his own mug and caught up to his partner. Mike had put his cup down and was reaching for the pot. "Can I get one of those too?" Steve asked with a chuckle, reaching into his pants pocket.

"Ah ah ah," Mike said quickly, "get your hand out of your pocket. I've got this." He poured the strong brew into his partner's mug before his own, then glanced up, a twinkle in his eye as he put the pot back on the burner. Still pinning the younger man with a stare and a grin, he reached into his right pants pocket, pulled out some coins and, without even looking, dropped them into the kitty can.

Steve's eyebrows shot up, bewildered by the atypical largesse from his usually parsimonious partner. Mike fixed him with a steely stare, as if daring the younger man to say something. Swallowing a Cheshire cat smile, Steve picked up the cup and took a sip, feeling his partner's eyes on him as Mike waited for the snide remark, becoming slightly crushed when it never came.

Then, chuckling, Mike picked up his own mug and headed back to his office, Steve in tow. They were both relieved, and elated, to be back at work. It had been more than a month and they had both been chafing at the bit. They still had to pass their physicals and qualify once again at the shooting range, a task that would tax the junior partner more than the senior because of the injuries they'd suffered, but they were both confident that that undertaking was just pure formality at this point. They both had completely recovered, physically at least, from the ordeal.

Steve took his usual seat in the guest chair near the door, leaning back and crossing his legs as Mike settled into his own chair. They both took big sips from their coffees before setting the mugs on the desk.

"So," Mike said, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his stomach, "anything important, or even mildly interesting, in that pile of messages?"

Steve knew the older man was chomping at the bit to get back to work, even though they were desk and office bound for the foreseeable future. He shook his head. "No, most of them were people just asking about how we were doing and the others were inquiries that other guys caught and answered. You?"

Mike shrugged. "Same." He exhaled loudly, blowing the air out through his lips in frustration. "Rats. Well, they're gonna notice if we slip out and start investigating something…"

"You think?" Steve asked rhetorically with a chuckle.

Mike bestowed his best sneer on him before continuing, "So… any cold cases we can dig out of records and go over, do you know?"

The younger man shrugged, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward to pick up his mug. "I'll go check. Wish me luck." He stood and moved towards the door.

"I will. Hey, listen, why don't we knock off early and head over to the range? I think both of us have to start knocking the rust off, don't you think?"

Steve nodded. "Sure, sounds good." He slipped the mug into his left hand and flexed his right fingers. He cocked his head and grimaced. "I think I have a lot more rust than you do right now."

Mike frowned, looking down. "Yeah," he said almost under his breath, and the younger man could hear the tinge of guilt in the single word.

Steve closed his eyes briefly, cursing himself for the slip; he hadn't meant it the way it sounded. He smiled suddenly, putting a lightness in his tone. "Hey, wanna make a little bet? Whoever scores lower buys dinner tonight – you up for that?"

The older man looked up, his smile building slowly and a twinkle coming back to the blue eyes. "You're on, smarty. Winner gets to pick the restaurant?"

"Of course."

Mike started to chuckle. "Oh my, this is gonna cost you…"

"You think so, hunh?" Steve taunted as he crossed to his desk. "You better blow the dust off that credit card, Lieutenant, 'cause I'm thinking maybe, oh, The Cliff House…"

"Dream on, Smiley, dream on…"

Laughing, Steve had dropped into his chair and picked up the receiver. He couldn't remember the extension for Sergeant Ortiz down in Records and he opened the top drawer to find the SFPD phone directory. The stark white bond paper of the Berkeley letter seemed to stare back at him and he froze guiltily, his eyes snapping to the inner office; Mike was on the phone again, his head down. Relieved, he slid the directory out from under the letter and shut the drawer.

Finding the extension number he wanted, with a shaking finger he began to dial.


	42. Chapter 42

**When I started this story, I had never heard of Paradise, California - and I chose it**

 **for the hometown of one of my characters by finding it on a map.**

 **Many of you many not know this, but the town of Paradise, California has been**

 **almost wiped off the map by the devastating fires that are ravaging California as I**

 **write this - more than 100 people are missing. My thoughts are with everyone**

 **whose lives have been, or are being, touched by this devastating result of**

 **climate change.**

"I hear congratulations are in order," Captain Rudy Olsen announced loudly as he stopped in the doorway of the inner office and leaned against the frame.

Both partners, Steve leaning over Mike's shoulder as they pored over a report on the desk, looked up and grinned. "Why thank you, Rudy," Mike chuckled, taking off his glasses as Steve straightened up and smiled with an appreciative nod. "It was nothing, really."

Olsen raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. "Unh-hunh," he responded sardonically with his own chuckle. "Well, it'll be good to have both of you on the streets again." He nodded at the papers on the desk. "What's that?"

Mike glanced down. "This? Oh, ah, Chief Powell sent us their final report on, ah, on what happened up there… with the, ah, the Reverend Jimmy Scott and all that."

The captain nodded slowly. He knew the subject was still a little fresh for them and decided not to press any further. "Ah, pass that along, ah… when you finish it, will ya?"

Mike nodded. "Sure."

"So, ah, when do you think you guys'll be on the streets again?"

Steve glanced at Mike then smiled. "As soon as that phone rings, Rudy," he laughed. "Things have been pretty quiet around here lately and the other guys have taken the lead on the open cases, but the next one's ours."

Mike was nodding in agreement, his eyebrows raised above a close-mouthed grin.

Olsen chuckled. "Well, I'll leave you guys to it." He turned away. "Welcome back to the front lines."

They watched him go, then looked at each other and chuckled before turning their attention to the report once more.

# # # # #

"You're late! Your first day back on the streets and you're late?"

Mike's loud voice reached him before he even got to his desk. Shrugging off his trench coat, he continued on to the office, chuckling and shaking his head as he hung it on the coat rack just inside the door.

Mike was glaring at him good-naturedly from overtop of his black glasses. He had taken his own jacket off but hadn't rolled up his sleeves; Steve knew the older man was still dealing with warmth issues and probably would for a long time, even though they were mostly psychosomatic now.

"I met a young lady for breakfast, just so you know, but it was all business," Steve chuckled softly as he dropped into the guest chair and loosened his tie.

"Unh-hunh," Mike glared at him, "business… right…"

Still laughing, Steve crossed his legs. "Yeah, business. You remember Annie Devereaux?"

Frowning, Mike took off his glasses and tossed them on the desk. "Annie Devereaux? Oh, ah, she's that young blonde girl we interviewed about the Church of Satan, right?" He smiled smugly, shaking his head with an almost evil chuckle. "She's a little young for you, isn't she?"

With a smirk, Steve leaned back in the chair. "Very funny. And yes, she is. But that's not why I met her this morning. I just wanted to catch up with her and see how she's doing –"

"Sure you did," Mike interrupted with a snort.

After a brief hesitation but choosing to ignore his partner, who was staring at him with a smug smile, he continued. "And, if you must know, she seems to be doing okay. She's even joined a new church."

"A new church?" Mike frowned. "You mean, one of the, you know, real ones or one of those…?" He twirled his right index finger beside his head, his eyes wide.

Chuckling, Steve ran his hand down the back of his head. "Well, I don't know how real it is but Herb Caen has been writing about it, so who knows…"

"What's it called?"

"The People's Temple. They have a… 'church' over on Geary near Steiner. She likes it a lot. She says they're doing good work and she's really excited about it so…." He shrugged. "Hey, if it makes her feel better after what she went through with Scott and the Church of Satan, I say more power to her."

Mike shrugged. "Well, whatever floats your boat, eh?"

"I guess."

"So, ah, so who's in charge over there? Who's their… guru?"

Steve leaned forward and uncrossed his legs, preparing to stand. "Oh, you're not going to believe this. Another 'Jimmy'." He got up, staring at Mike with a smile and raised eyebrows.

Mike frowned through a chuckle. "What?"

Nodding, Steve took a step towards the door before turning back. "Yep, but this time it's the Reverend Jim Jones."

# # # # #

Steve hung up the phone and finished making a note. Halfway through the sentence, his ballpoint ran out of ink. Frustrated, he ran it over a piece of scrap paper then tossed it in the wastepaper basket beside the desk. He opened the top drawer to get another pen; the stark white paper of the Berkeley letter met his eyes. He froze slightly, glancing up at the inner office guiltily; Mike was leaning over his desk, reading.

After reaching under the paper for a pen, Steve slowly shut the drawer. He paused, biting his bottom lip. He'd been thinking about that letter and its implications for days now and it was starting to eat at him. He knew he'd been successful in hiding the internal dilemma from his partner so far, but he also knew he wasn't being fair to either of them.

He hadn't made up his mind yet about the Berkeley offer, and the mere fact that he hadn't responded to this second letter was beginning to weigh on him. Did this hesitation actually mean he was starting to take this proposition seriously? Even the thought disturbed him.

But he couldn't, and wouldn't, keep Mike in the dark any longer, he had decided. He would tell him today, when the time was right. And they would talk, like they always did, like they always could…

He opened the drawer again, picked up the letter and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket, glancing at the inner office once more to make sure his partner wasn't watching; Mike was still engrossed in whatever he was reading. With a sigh, he picked up the pen and finished the note he had been making.

# # # # #

Steve straightened up and glanced at his watch. 12:42. He looked towards the inner office; Mike was leaning back in his chair, glasses on, reading a report. Tossing the pen onto his desk, Steve got to his feet, his right hand going automatically to his jacket over the left breast pocket, feeling the stiff folded letter paper in the inside pocket.

He had decided, cards on the table, he would tell Mike about the Berkeley letter over lunch. He was halfway to the glass-paneled door when Mike's phone rang.

Leaning forward quickly, Mike tossed the report on the desk and picked up the receiver. "Homicide, Stone," Steve heard as he opened the door, watching while Mike listened.

The older man pulled a notepad closer and picked up a pen, glancing up to meet his partner's eyes. "Yeah…. Yeah, okay…" He scribbled something quickly on the pad. "Yeah…. Yeah, we're on our way." He slammed the receiver down as he got to his feet, tearing the top sheet off the pad. His eyebrows rose as he looked at Steve again before circling his desk towards the coat rack. "We got a case, buddy boy. Body in an alley over on 19th."

Involuntarily smiling at the unexpected but not entirely surprising sobriquet, Steve had already taken his trench coat off the rack and was shrugging it on. Mike picked up the fedora and dropped it on his head, then reached for his jacket and topcoat.

The letter temporarily forgotten, Steve patted his pockets for the keys as he led his partner across the bullpen and out the door.

# # # # #

Mike leaned over the medical examiner's shoulder. "Whata ya got for us, Bernie?"

The M.E. glanced up and smiled. "Mike! I didn't expect you guys to catch this." He nodded at Steve, who nodded back. "Great to see you guys back to work."

"It's great to be back to work," the lieutenant agreed with a chuckle. "So what do we have here?"

Bernie nodded towards the body. "Don't have much yet. No I.D. so we're gonna have to run prints. From what I can tell, he took at least three shots to the chest, fairly close range. Death was probably instantaneous, but he wasn't shot here. Not enough blood."

"So this is a dump site," Steve mused aloud and saw his partner nod.

Mike straightened up. "Well, if that's the case, we're probably not going to find anything here that's gonna tell us where he _was_ shot, but I want this entire alley searched anyway."

"I'll get on that," Steve nodded as he peeled away to talk to the senior uniformed officer on the scene.

Bernie got to his feet. "We'll take the body back to the shop and I'll roll those prints as soon as I can. Hopefully he's in the system."

Mike snorted. "Yeah, your lips to God's ears, right?" The coroner chuckled and nodded. "Thanks, Bernie." Mike was just about to turn away when a patrolman ran up to him.

"Lieutenant Stone, you're wanted on the radio. Dispatch needs to talk to you right away."

Frowning, Mike glanced at Bernie, who shrugged with a smile.

Back at the car, Mike snagged the mic. "Inspectors 8-1 to Dispatch."

# # # # #

Steve was at the far end of the alley when Mike approached at a jog. "Steve, come on, we gotta go!"

The younger man spun, startled by the urgency in his partner's voice. He raised his hands in confusion. "What?"

"Come on, come on," Mike urged, nodding sharply back up the alley towards the car. "We got a call. Let's go."

Glancing at a nearby patrolman with a frown and a shrug, Steve started to follow his rapidly striding partner at a slow run. "What's going on?"

Mike had reached the street and circled the car to the passenger side, opening the door. "A triple murder in Sea Cliff. Scenic Way. Our presence has been requested."

"Requested?" Steve asked, opening the driver's door.

"Requested," Mike confirmed as he got into the tan sedan.

# # # # #

Three black-and-whites, their lights still flashing, were parked haphazardly on the wide residential street. A few curious neighbours were being held back by a patrolman. The front door of a large house was open, a uniformed officer keeping watch.

Their eyes sweeping the upscale street, the two homicide detectives climbed out of the unmarked LTD and started toward the house, flashing their I.D.'s automatically as they crossed the threshold. They were met by Sergeant Dan Healey in the spacious lobby.

"Mike, Steve," their colleague nodded as they came into view. "The bodies are in here." He turned to lead them into the library.

Mike nodded at the patrolman guarding the door as they moved into the large, mahogany paneled room. Healey, his notebook and pen in hand, stopped a few feet into the room as the partners followed. He pointed to the body of an older male near the door. "That's Brian Dawber. He's the –" he stopped himself briefly, "he _was_ the CEO of Harvest Oil." He pointed to the body of an older woman facedown in the centre of room. "That's his wife... and his daughter." Exhaling loudly, he gestured with the notepad towards the body of a young girl in front of the marble fireplace.

With a heavy sigh, Mike moved closer to Dawber. "They were all shot?"

Healey nodded. "Looks like it, but we'll need Bernie to sign off on that, of course."

Steve nodded grimly. "He's on his way. He was with us over on 19th… a body dump."

Knowing they couldn't touch anything yet, Mike walked slowly and carefully around the room. "Who found them?"

"The housekeeper." Healey glanced at his notes. "A Mrs. Orelle Washington. She had the morning off, her son is in town for a few days and they gave her the morning off to spend some time with him. She, ah, she found them when she arrived."

"Where is she now?"

"Neighbors. She, ah, she freaked out when she found the bodies and ran next door. She's still there. They're the ones who called it in."

"We'll want to talk to her," Steve confirmed and Healey nodded.

Mike had wandered near the daughter's body. "Steve, come have a look at this…"

Steve and Healey moved closer. Mike put out a hand to stop them before nodding at the rug. He pointed to the three bodies then down at the rug again. "They all seemed to have dropped where they were shot, right?" The others nodded. "So who is this blood from?" He looked at his partner.

Steve raised his eyes from the rug and they shared a look. Healey, frowning, looked from one partner to the other. "Our friend in the alley?" Steve offered tentatively.

Mike nodded.

# # # # #

Mike looked up from the report on his desk and stretched his shoulder muscles, running a hand over the back of his neck. He glanced at his watch: 10:23. He took off his glasses and tossed them on the desk, looking through the glass wall into the bullpen. Steve was on the phone.

He rubbed his hands over his face. He was tired; it had been a long day. But he was also energized. They had spent several hours at the Dawber home before returning to Bryant Street and were in the nascent stages of what they believed was going to be a major homicide investigation. Dawber was a name to be reckoned with in San Francisco, and this was sure to become one of the most high profile cases the department would be taking on in quite awhile.

Steve hung up the phone, got up and headed towards the inner office. "Dan's on his way up. They got an I.D. on that body in the alley and he's run it. Turns out he has a record."

"Good. That'll help. Maybe we can get a handle on who did this to the Dawbers… and why."

"So, what are you thinking? Straight up robbery… or botched kidnapping?" Steve asked as he dropped into the guest chair.

Mike frowned, shaking his head. "I don't know. Who robs a place while the entire family is at home? There have been a lot of high profile executive kidnappings lately…" He shrugged. "So… I don't know, Dawber fought back…? His wife…? His daughter…? We'll just have to figure it out, right?"

Steve nodded with a small smile. "Right." He could feel the excitement emanating from his partner and, if he was honest with himself, he was feeling it too. He hadn't felt this way in awhile and it was exhilarating. His attention briefly flicked back to the letter in his jacket pocket; it would have to wait. His job, and this investigation, came first.

The bullpen door opened with a bang and Healey strode quickly across the linoleum to the inner office door. Smiling grimly, he handed a file folder to Mike, whose eyes were glued to the sergeant's face. The older man smiled warmly. "Dan, you look beat. Go home. Steve and I'll do this."

Healey looked from Mike to Steve and back again. "You sure?"

The lieutenant nodded. "I'm sure." He glanced at his partner. "We're not gonna solve this tonight and we're gonna need fresh eyes on this tomorrow so get some sleep and come back in bright eyed and bushy tailed in the morning, okay?"

With a weary sigh and a laugh, Healey turned away. "You don't have to tell me twice. See you in the morning!" he called over his shoulder as he headed for his desk.

Mike looked at Steve and chuckled before opening the file. The younger man pulled the notebook on the desk closer and took a pen out of his shirt pocket, snapping it open.

Mike's eyes scanned the report. "Our John Doe is one Gareth David Foster, 26 years old. And he has a record… imagine that?" He snorted facetiously, glancing up at Steve with an ironic smile. "He's been busted for D&D, misdemeanor assault and, oh, guess what? Robbery."

Steve shook his head with a smirk. "Sounds like a model citizen. Was he arrested with any accomplices?"

The older man flipped through several pages. "Not from the looks of it…." He paused. "Ah, here we go… let's see, he wasn't booked with anybody but there's a report here of him being stopped and questioned with a bunch of others in regards to the robbery of a house in Pacific Heights about a year ago."

"Got a list of those other names?"

"Yeah," Mike said slowly, "write these down, I want to have at look at them too. Let's see, ah, Arlen Washington… Gary Jelinek…. Susan Rosen… Barbara Ross… and a Nick and Marie Tannenger…"


End file.
